


The Angel Next Door

by posingasme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Abusive Relationships, Alcoholic Dean, Alcoholic John, Big Brother Dean, Emotional Manipulation, Human Castiel, Hurt Sam Winchester, Insults, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Law Student Sam, Light Sadism, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Minor Tyson Brady/Sam Winchester, Obsession, Painkillers, Past Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Past Relationship(s), Professor Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Self-Esteem Issues, Triggers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3447941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/posingasme/pseuds/posingasme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A weird new guy moved in across the hall from Dean and Sam. Dean's pretty sure he's a spook or a psycho. Sam's pretty sure he's out of his league.</p><p> </p><p>Warnings for various unhealthy relationships and coping apply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Thinks He's Gonna Like It Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning...

Sam didn’t actually mind Dean’s paranoia so much as he minded the way he was ranting while wrapped only in a towel.

“I’m telling you, Sammy, he’s strange. He’s always watching everything. Everybody. I’d be flattered, except he’s a creep about it. Besides, I’m pretty sure he’s more your type. You know.”

He rolled his eyes and deliberately avoided looking at his brother. “Yeah. Can you put on some clothes, please?”

Dean looked down at himself, and nodded. “Right. Okay.”

The younger man could hear him pulling denim over skin, and sighed. “Would you leave the guy alone? I mean, you’ve never even spoken to him.”

“Part of why it’s so freaking creepy. Stares at me when I walk down the hall.”

“Probably because you’re staring at him.”

“I only stare at him because he stares first. Maybe he’s some kind of spy or something. Or a sociopath.”

Sam put his hand into his hair, as if he needed some kind of sensory stimulation other than his brother’s voice. “Yeah. Probably both.”

“You ever noticed he never blinks?”

“Everybody blinks, Dean.” 

“I don’t think he does.”

He lowered his hand to rub at his eyes now. “Leave the man alone, will you? Come on. One day I’d like to have a neighbor you didn’t annoy the hell out of with your paranoia. Look, he’s around our age. He’s obviously not married. Maybe we’d enjoy his company if you’d stop obsessing about stuff.”

“Sammy! Do not!”

“I’m going to invite him for a beer.”

Dean put himself in front of the door. At least he was fully clothed at this point. “No. No, because if you do, and he says yes, and we hate him, but he likes us-and, you know, who wouldn’t?-then it’s awkward and we might have to kill him in secret.”

Sam stared at his brother with weary eyes.

The older man slowly backed away from the door. “It could get awkward,” he reiterated with a bit of a whine. 

“You’re right. Because it isn’t awkward now. Now is fine. He lives right across the hall from us, Dean! Don’t you want to know he’d at least call the police if he heard us being murdered?”

Dean considered this argument, then shook his head. “The real question is why is he listening?”

Sam threw his hands up and shoved his brother away from the door altogether. “You’re the sociopath.” He left the apartment, feeling fairly confident that Dean was an anti-social idiot, and knocked on the door across the hall.

“Yes?” a voice called, just before a crash hit Sam’s ears.

“Um…you okay, buddy? I’m Sam from next door.”

There was a strange thud to complement the crash, and Sam was beginning to get worried when the door finally opened as far as the chain would allow, revealing one blue eye and a stripe of dark hair above it. “Yes?” the man said again.

Dean was right about the guy being weird. He took a deep breath and rushed forward before he changed his mind. “Hey, um. So my brother and I live across the hall.”

The blue eye flicked from Sam to their apartment door behind him. “Yes?”

Maybe the man didn’t speak English. He tried to remember if he had heard the guy talk yet. “So you moved in a few weeks back, but we never introduced ourselves. I’m Sam, he’s Dean. We’re going out tonight for some drinks, and we wanted to invite you to join us if you’re free.”

The eye narrowed. “Your brother is the man who stares at me while I try to do my laundry. And he often doesn’t have enough clothes on.”

Sam laughed quietly. “Yeah, well, he’s a bit of a freak, but he’s harmless. I promise.”

“Your younger brother?”

His eyes widened slightly. He could not remember the last time someone had mistaken him for the older of the two. “Uh, no. He’s about four years older…” Why was he having this conversation with a disembodied eye? “Hey, sorry I bothered you. Just…welcome to the building. If you need anything, let us know. I’ll tell my idiot brother to leave you alone.”

Finally, as he was turning away, he could hear the chain being removed and the door opening with a shuffle. He looked back over his shoulder to see the rest of the man appear. It was the first time he had seen him without the long khaki trench coat. Instead, he was in a casual blue button-down under a blue sweater and charcoal pants, and now that he could view them both, Sam had never seen anyone’s eyes look so amazing.

When he found that thought floating around in his head, he cringed and took another step toward his own apartment. The last thing he wanted was to freak out this guy a little more by staring into those gorgeous eyes immediately after having apologized for Dean’s behavior, and the last thing he needed was to have another set of beautiful eyes keeping him up at night anyway. He had just stopped aching over the last pair.

“When you say drinks, you mean a bar?”

Sam’s head went crooked for a moment. “Uh. Yeah. There’s a pub we like less than two blocks from here. We’re heading out now.”

The man nodded slowly. “I might enjoy that. I will meet you there. What’s the name?”

“It’s Salt and Burn straight down Pike. What’s your name?”

“Castiel.”

He took a breath. “Wow. Okay. What do your friends call you?” As soon as it was out of his mouth, he wondered if that had been rude.

The blue eyes narrowed, but the man did not seem to be offended. “I suppose they would call me Castiel.”

Something about that answer seemed terribly odd, but Sam was fixed on the fact that he might have seemed impolite. “Oh.”

“Or Cas. Perhaps they would call me Cas.”

Sam smiled at him awkwardly. “Okay then. Cas…tiel. It’s good to meet you. We’ll look for you tonight. Hope you join us.”

There was a nod, then the man slipped back into his apartment, though not before Sam got a glimpse of the state of affairs inside. It looked like a disaster area, with boxes and books and clothing everywhere. It was no wonder it had sounded as though he had to battle his way to the door.

Sam returned to his own apartment door and heard a quite different crash when he threw it open. “Jesus, Dean! Were you watching us through the freaking peephole?”

Dean picked himself up off the floor irritably. “I had to make sure he didn’t kill you, didn’t I?”

“You need something to do with your life. You need a job where you have to bring work home with you. You need a hobby.”

His brother scowled at him. “I have a hobby. And you’re ruining it by inviting some creep we don’t know.”

“Drinking is not a hobby, Dean. Chasing tail is not a hobby.”

Finally, Dean’s face brightened a bit. “You’re right, Sam. It’s far more serious than a hobby. It’s a calling, really.”

Twenty minutes later, they were seated at a table near the pool tables, and Dean was leaning his chair back to chat up the woman at the table behind them. Sam sighed to himself and took a pull from his bottle.

Dean cackled, then returned his attention to his brother. He grinned triumphantly, flicking a small piece of paper scrawled with numbers onto the table carelessly. Sometimes Sam wondered if the fishing was more important to Dean than the actual catch and release.

“Apartment to myself tonight?” he said hopefully.

“Don’t get excited. I’m going to wait a few days.” He watched the younger man for a few beats, then took a swallow from his beer. “It’s cool, man. We can go to one of your bars later if you want.”

Sam wanted to glower at him, but he could not help appreciating that Dean would even consider going to a gay bar with him. Knowing Dean, he would probably love the attention. Dean loved all attention, regardless of type, from all people, regardless of gender or just about any other qualification. But he knew it did make him uncomfortable to be mistaken for Sam’s boyfriend, and that inevitably happened. “I’m not interested in hooking up, Dean,” he informed him stubbornly. “And if I were, I wouldn’t need to hit a gay club for that.”

“But why wouldn’t you?” he asked, genuinely curious. “I mean, that’s got to be the easiest way.”

“I’m tired of the easy way,” he sulked, staring into his bottle. “You have the personality for it. I really don’t. I’d rather be alone than with mistakes.”

His brother made a face at that. “You think that’s all you find at bars and clubs? Mistakes? What does that make us?”

“Somebody else’s mistake,” he murmured gloomily. But his eyes were on the door, and he watched as Castiel entered the scene, his gaze darting around each table. He raised his arm, not bothering to stand. “Hey! Castiel!”

“Castiel? His name is Castiel? That’s not a real name.”

“Shut up. Cas! Over here!”

The blue eyes found them, but yet he hesitated. Even sitting, Sam tended to tower over other patrons, and he had a clear view of the man. He had put on jeans and the trench coat, but he still wore those blue layers, and Sam felt himself breathe a little shallowly.

It was always the eyes that got him. Sam loved an athletic body, which the man obviously had, and had lately preferred dark hair, just long enough to grab. His whole nervous system had reacted to Castiel’s deep, rumbling voice. But the eyes. Always the eyes. Castiel had incredible eyes, and the way he looked across the room at him with that one peaked eyebrow made him draw in a breath and hold it, as if he was waiting for the man to give him permission to let it out.

Dean smacked him on the arm across the table. “Don’t do it,” he warned in a husky voice. “Stop.”

Their neighbor was finally walking toward them, and Sam’s face was flushing warm. “Stop, what?” he hissed.

“Fucking him with your eyes.”

Sam turned to stare at him, scandalized. “I am not!”

“You’re at least at third base,” his brother shot back. “So knock it off.” He grinned up at Castiel as he arrived at their table, and pushed a chair out to him with his foot. “Hey, Cas! Join us!”

Castiel looked at the chair, then sat in it with a level of caution Sam did not think was probably warranted. “Hello.”

Sam waved his long arm to get the attention of the bartender, who sent a waitress to the table.

Their neighbor frowned briefly, then cleared his throat. “White Russian, high-shelf scotch, neat, in a tall glass,” he said quietly, “and whatever your lightest beer is, in whatever order it becomes available.” The waitress smiled and walked away without having said a word.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “You take your drinking seriously, Cas.”

The blue gaze fixed on him. “I have something of a high tolerance.” He glanced at Sam. “Thank you for inviting me out. I don’t know many places around here.”

The older brother nodded and cut his eyes at Sam. “Yeah. We’re generally here or at Harvelle’s off the highway. ‘Course some weekends, Sam ditches me to go to Sidetrack in the city. But this is our main hangout.”

Sam delivered a sharp kick to Dean’s shin and watched the green eyes close briefly in a flinch.

But Castiel did not seem to notice. “Sidetrack?” he murmured. He turned to face Sam without even having the decency to blink or pretend he did not know what that was.

He shrugged. “Not often. Once in a while…So where are you from anyway?” he asked quickly. He could feel himself beginning to sweat, and he knew Dean was smiling into his beer.

“Northeast,” he responded vaguely. “I moved to Illinois to teach at Lake Forest.”

Sam tried not to notice Dean snickering. “You’re a professor?” he asked breathlessly.

“I teach religious studies to undergrads. Yes.”

“That’s a good school,” Sam forced out. “And I bet they’re lucky to have you.” In his periphery, he could see Dean rolling his eyes.

“Thank you. Yes, they are.”

Something about that casual arrogance brought Sam back from his fog. He laughed to himself, letting his hair hide his face.

Castiel blinked. “I mean, yes. They are…a good school. Thank you for…” He cleared his throat again. “So what do you two do?”

He could see his big brother was softening, probably because it was becoming obvious that this man was not a serial killer or spy, just an awkward professor. “I work at a body shop and I take some hours at a junkyard when they think they can salvage something. Sammy’s a paralegal for now.”

“For now?” 

Sam could feel the blush in his cheeks again, and he was not even sure why. “I’m finishing law school at night.”

“That’s ambitious.”

He licked his lips carefully, and tried to avoid Castiel’s eyes. “I decided I didn’t want to practice. Thinking about…post-secondary.”

For the first time, a smile spread on the man’s face. “So you want to teach. You’d be a professor.”

“Yeah. Good pre-law professors are in short supply. And the more contact I have with law, the more I get disillusioned with the courtroom.”

The smile persisted, and Castiel even appeared to be relaxing, as the waitress finally returned with his beer and scotch. “Yes, I try to sufficiently jade my students so that they understand exactly how much bullshit there is out there. I’d hate for a student of mine to enter seminary or some other path before realizing it’s all a chaotic mess full of hypocrites and psychotic head cases.”

Sam snickered. “They tried to warn us about law school. They didn’t properly warn us about law.”

After this, the conversation flowed more easily. To the brothers’ surprise, Castiel pursued a conversation with Dean about the cars he worked on, showing a genuine interest in every detail. The White Russian arrived within moments of the other drinks, and the server’s eyes widened to find the other two drained already. Castiel placed an order for a second White Russian and another neat scotch, as he accepted the drink. Dean grinned and ordered another beer, then continued telling his new friend all about the ’67 Impala he was fixing up at the garage after hours. Castiel asked a dozen questions, and Sam was soon certain that Dean was having more fun talking to this professor than he had been hitting on the blond behind them. He watched the two of them for a long time, jumping in only when it would have been awkward not to, and he let his mind wander a bit while he sipped at his beer.

Castiel was down nine drinks before he showed the slightest signs of being tipsy. Dean had begun matching his pace, Sam noticed, and was a little further gone, so the younger man decided to order some hot wings so Dean was not competing with a guy who evidently had the metabolism of a hummingbird on an empty stomach.

Castiel ate only the celery, but Dean made up for it by attacking the wings. After four plates of hot wings between the three of them, Sam had long since lost count of everyone’s drinks, but his mouth burned and his mind buzzed happily. Dean was clapping Castiel on the back every few minutes, and the man in blue was moving far more fluidly and animatedly. He still seemed reserved sitting next to Dean, but he laughed more and Sam liked that.

A little after midnight, Castiel stood and approached the bar alone. Dean leaned over to Sam. “Dude, he’s not a psycho. He’s weird, but it’s a good weird. You like him?”

“Yeah, I…No, Dean, not like that. I just got out of one thing, I’m not jumping back into something else. Besides, he ain’t interested.”

“Ain’t inter-What table are you sitting at?”

Rolling his eyes made him a bit dizzy. “Dude, he hasn’t looked at me in twenty minutes. He’s said three words directly to me in the last two hours. He ain’t interested. If anything, I’d think he might be hitting on you, except I think you made your preference pretty clear when your fuck buddy from last weekend came over and you couldn’t remember her name.”

“Sheila. It was Sheila. I remember now.”

“It was Sonya, Dean. She said it twice.”

“Anyway, the guy isn’t hitting on me. He’s been hanging on every word you say, though. And you said you just got out of a thing, but you’ve been out of that particular thing for almost three months. Mourning period is over, dude. Time to jump back into the deep end.”

Sam’s face tightened. “Dean, your idea of the deep end is sleeping in the same bed twice. It’s knowing her freaking name, and possibly even sharing a meal with her. The deep end for me is a little…deeper.”

“No details,” Dean insisted.

“Bite me, Dean.”

Castiel returned to the table, but did not sit. Instead, he placed his wallet back into his coat, and slung the trench over his arm. “I think I should head back. Thank you for inviting me out. I had a good time.” He directed the statement to Dean, but Sam saw the blue eyes seek him out in a way that was almost shy. He placed a business card in the center of the table slowly. He glanced at Sam quickly, then turned back to Dean. “In case you’d like company again. Good luck with the Impala. And your night classes.”

Dean stood and smacked him on the arm. “Yeah, thanks, man. Glad to know the guy across the hall isn’t Dahmer.”

He frowned very slightly, then seemed to understand. “Ah. Yes. The feeling is mutual.” He took a breath. “Well, good night.”

“Good night…Castiel…” Sam said too slowly.

Dean burst into laughter. “Wow, dude. I don’t think I’ve seen you crush on somebody so hard since Gabriel Arch back in high school.”

“Shut up. Gabriel was a dick. This guy is nice.”

“And?”

“And shut up! I’m not…whatever. Shut up. Guy’s totally out of my league anyway. Seriously. Don’t even look at me like that. I’m not interested.” Sam was relieved when the waitress returned. “Hey. We’re ready for the check.”

“Oh. That guy with the pretty blue eyes already paid it.”

Sam nodded. “I meant our part of it.”

“Yeah. So did I.” 

Dean’s head snapped up. “You serious? We ordered like a hundred drinks!”

She shrugged. “He came to the bar and paid for everything for your table.”

“Even the stuff from before he got here?”

 “Yup.”

Dean sat back thoughtfully as the server walked away with their empties. Then he looked at his brother and stabbed at the business card on the table with his finger. “Dude, you gotta.”

“Gotta what?” he practically shrieked.

“The guy just paid for our whole night. I like him. First guy you've been into in years that wasn't an asshole.”

“And?” he shouted with incredulity.

“And what? Go! Text him! Or knock on his door! It isn’t like we don’t know where he lives! And he obviously wants you to!”

Sam grabbed his jacket and threaded his arms through the sleeves. “I’m not hooking up with a guy because he paid for a night out.”

“Why not? Why do you think guys pay for nights out?”

He could hear Dean tumbling out of his chair to rush after him. “You’re disgusting. He paid for your drinks too. You gonna go offer him a happy ending?”

“It ain’t me he wants, Sammy.”

The cold air hit him in the face, and he gulped it in to clear his mind. “You’re so ridiculous. First you want me to go to Sidetrack. Now you’re trying to hook me up with a guy we don’t even know, a guy you thought kept bodies in his closet until a few hours ago. What do you care if I get laid?”

“Maybe you’d be in a better mood.”

“Screw you, Dean. Just…screw you.”

“I got a few numbers I can call if you want the apartment to yourself.”

Sam growled audibly. “I do, but not for that.”

Dean was laughing behind him, but he ignored it in favor of stalking toward the apartment building, his keys in his fist. The night air was sobering him, but it did nothing to get the words “pretty blue eyes” out of his head.


	2. Sympathy for the Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Days go by...

The short story was that the blue eyes had kept him up at night, just like he had known they would. What was it with him and guys' eyes? Any normal person would at least spend their early mornings obsessing about some other part of anatomy.

On the fourth morning in a row, he sighed heavily and pushed himself up from the bed to begin wandering the apartment. Three years ago, when he had graduated, he had moved in with Dean temporarily. He had been adamant that he would be gone in a few months. Dean had shrugged every time he said it, and responded that he could stay as long as he liked. He had paid rent when he could, but Dean had simply not cashed his checks.

Finally, Dean had sat him down about it. "Dude, I know this isn't where you thought you'd be right now. When your buddy Jess died, I knew you'd need someplace to be. A thing like that don't just go away. You don't just get past something like that when you really love somebody. And I like having you here. So let's not worry about when you're moving out. And let's not worry about you paying anything for now. I'd rather see you put your money to taking some classes. Put it toward beer for all I care. I'll let you know when I need you to pitch in with cash." He had grinned then. "Besides, I make more hustling pool at Salt than you do working forty hours for that Roman dick."

And now it was three years later, and Dean had yet to bring up money again. He had been pleased when Sam had begun taking night courses, but had said very little. When he did mention it, it was to other people, and it was with quiet pride that made Sam incredibly happy.

Dean was right. This is not where he thought he would be by now. But he was happy. Taking classes this way was far less stressful than going the traditional route. It would take a lot longer, but he and Dean had fallen back in to patterns they had enjoyed years ago, and Sam was content in a way he thought maybe he had never been.

The only thing missing in his life was a pair of eyes to stare into.

His brother had not liked the last guy he had brought home. They had been all smirks and sneers in the kitchen in the mornings, and Sam had felt entirely uncomfortable whenever Brady had been over while Dean was home. He had snapped at his brother about it, but he knew Dean's instincts were usually good, unless he was being a paranoid bastard.

Slowly-too slowly-he had begun to see why Brady rubbed Dean the wrong way. The arrogance that Sam had seen as confidence weighed down their interactions. Brady was fond of reminding Sam just how lucky he was. He even teased Sam by referring to their relationship as Brady slumming. It had hurt, but since Sam had always felt outclassed, with Jess, with Brady, with everyone in between, it had taken him too long to recognize it for what it was, what Dean had seen right away.

"He's a controlling bitch," his brother had exploded one evening. Brady had stood Sam up yet again, then called hours later, and somehow, Sam had ended up the one apologizing.

"Dean, it's fine."

"It isn't fine!" he had shouted back. "I've held my peace all this time, but I'm sick of this guy hurting you just to watch you break."

Sam had stared at him. The wording had surprised him. "That's not-"

"That's exactly what's happening. He kicks you till you're bleeding, and makes you ask for it again. It's all control for him, Sammy! Wants you to need him!"

Hurt and anger rose up to choke him. "You think so little of me that-"

"I think so much of you I want to go kick this guy's ass just for being stupid. I think so much of you I haven't kicked his ass yet. You can take care of yourself but don't tell me you ain't getting your face pushed into the dirt because that bitch can't stand to see you feeling good about yourself. He knows if you ever saw what you really are, you'd know you're too good for sleaze like him. So he makes you think you're the lucky one."

Sam was trembling with rage. "I am lucky to have him, Dean. A guy like him doesn't need to settle for a guy like me. I'm just glad he does. For as long as it lasts, he can kick me anytime he wants. I'll take what he'll give me."

Dean had stormed out of the apartment, and had not spoken to him again for three days. There had been a lot of slammed doors that week, but it had ended when Dean had come home from work early to find Sam curled up on the couch crying into one of Jess's old tee shirts.

He had felt strong arms lift him into a hug, smelled the familiar, comforting grease and soap smell of his brother. Dean had not spoken, just held him for several minutes.

Finally, Sam had lifted his head weakly. "I miss him so much."

"I know, man. I'm sorry."

"You would have liked him. He was nothing like Brady. He was smart and always smiling. Not a sneer like Brady, an honest smile. And he loved me. I know he did."

Dean had nodded. "I wish I had known him, Sammy. I regret not knowing him."

He smiled through the tears. "I left Brady, okay? I don't want to talk about it, but you were right. About everything. I just wanted you to know I wasn't always like this."

"Like what?"

He laughed bitterly. "Needy. Pathetic. I hate that that's how you see me now. It wasn't like that with Jess. I just want you to know that."

The green gaze narrowed sharply. "Sam, you aren't needy. Not pathetic. You're just lonely. Okay? And when you're with somebody who makes that worse instead of better, who leads you along, who makes you feel like you aren't good enough, I can't help but get angry about it. You deserve better, Sammy."

And he did, because of course everyone did. But when a guy feels worthless every waking moment, it's hard to think of how to get past it. Besides, no one would be Jess. If no man could ever be what he had lost, what did it matter by how much they fell short? He was not going to find another Jess, so he should feel lucky to have anyone at all keeping him warm at night, whispering lies. Brady had been beautiful and charming, confident and wickedly smart. So what if he could not open his mouth without lying? He was so smooth that Sam could pretend he wasn't being leashed and led, could pretend he was being loved.

Part of him craved the reassurance that he was as worthless as he felt. If a man couldn't see that a mile away, he obviously wasn't very smart, and it would be wrong of Sam to take advantage of him. Jess had never figured it out. The poor man had gone to his grave thinking Sam was a great catch. That blind spot was incredible to Sam. He had been so grateful for Jess's inability to see just how far below him Sam was. But he was not selfish enough to encourage that blindness in another man. So he inevitably ended up with a guy like Brady who saw him for exactly what he was and thrilled in making Sam beg to be loved in spite of it. Brady's favorite had been hearing him say he was sorry. For what never mattered. "I'm sorry. I'll make it better. I'll make it up to you. Please."

It was no wonder Dean had hated him. Dean had the same blind spot Jess had. For some reason, the older man thought he hung the moon. As a result, he tended to hate anyone else who knew better. Sam loved him for it, even if he would never understand it.

As protective as Dean was, it was surprising that he had pushed Castiel at him. He had brought it up several times since they had enjoyed drinks with the man from across the hall.

"Did you text or call him yet?" he asked again over orange juice and bacon in the morning.

"Castiel? No, I haven't. Why do you keep bringing it up?"

"I liked him," he said simply, and turned his attention back to the eggs he was cooking and the bacon he was eating.

"You thought he might murder me," Sam pointed out with a smile.

Dean shrugged. "I don't think he will. Call it eighty twenty."

"You're giving me eighty twenty odds that he's going to kill me? And you want to know why I haven't called?"

"You're a big guy, and you got decent reflexes. I'm pretty confident he won't kill you. The eighty twenty odds were whether he'd try."

"Ah. That makes it all better then."

"So? You calling him?"

"No. I prefer to obsess about pretty guys in the safety of my own head where they'll never be bothered by it. I'm considerate like that."

Dean was shaking his head. "Man, I don't get it."

"Of course you don't. You're Dean Winchester. This is what you do. The love savvy genes were all used up by the time I was conceived. The charisma ones too, by the way. And the ones needed for coherent thought while looking into gorgeous eyes." He opened his laptop with a sigh. "Trust me. It's better for all parties if I pine from afar rather than make an idiot of myself. When it gets too bad, I'll go hook up with someone at Sidetrack and feel stupid afterward, and the neighbor will have no idea how close I came to pounding tequila and propositioning him. Everyone wins."

"Well, someone's had too much coffee already this morning. How long you been up?"

"Hours. Got a bunch of work done for Roman."

"He doesn't pay you enough to work on a Sunday."

"He doesn't pay me enough to work on a Tuesday, but I take pride in my work."

The sound of cooking carried through the silence for a moment. Then Dean sighed. "I just feel bad for him, that's all."

"Richard Roman is the wealthiest person in the city. Don't feel bad for him."

"Not Dick! Castiel!"

"Castiel? Why?"

He was shaking his head at the eggs. "We hung out with him one time. Then we never spoke to him again. I haven't even run into him in the hall since then."

"It's only been a week."

"He obviously doesn't know anyone else in this town, Sam. And as awkward as he is, I can't believe he's got many friends. Now he probably thinks we didn't like him. God, we never even thanked him for paying the other night."

Sam's stomach was beginning to tighten. He knew what Dean was doing, but it was working. "Stop making me feel bad."

"I mean, I could call him. But I think it's better if you do it. You invited him out to begin with. Can't even imagine what he must be thinking now."

Sam leapt to his feet. "Stop! Stop it!"

Dean was smiling now, but he could only tell from his voice since he was deliberately turned away from him. "I mean, neither of us know what it's like to be in a new town and too shy to make new friends and-"

"Fuck you, Dean!"

He could hear the man laughing behind him as he stomped into his bedroom to grab his phone.


	3. He's No Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remembering the past...

Sam stared at the text before he sent it. There was no way he would be able to call. Castiel might pick up, and then he would have to hear that incredible voice while he was trying to be cool about the whole thing.

Wasn't he too old for this yet? It was like the hours he had spent thinking about those sickeningly attractive whiskey eyes of Gabriel Arch in high school. The guy had known-maybe the whole school had known-how bad the younger Winchester had it for Dean's buddy. Gabriel was irreparably straight, but he had not been above winking at Sam whenever the freshman's crush seemed to be fading. One wink and Sam was a gawky ball of nerves again. One wink would string him along for another month.

Sam had always been drawn to the confident guy. That was part of why this thing with Castiel was so strange. He was pretty, sure, but so awkward.

But not insecure. Sam thought back to their interactions thus far. Castiel had been weird, but he was either unaware of it or fine with it. Something about that intrigued Sam.

Before Jess, there had been a string of _almosts_. That was how Sam thought about them. _Not quites_. His years in high school had been a disaster, one poor decision after another, and one of them was named Gordon.

Gordon Walker was the only time Dean had ever actually stepped in. Gordon had been a year behind Dean in school, and they had played lacrosse together. Dean had introduced them. "He's on my team," Dean had whispered, "but I'm ninety percent sure he plays for yours." It was the only time Sam had let his brother get away with the playing for the other team line, and that was mostly because his mouth had gone dry the minute he had been subjected to that predatory grin of Gordon's.

Sam was four years younger than Dean, but only three years behind him in school. And Sam had always taken advanced classes, whereas Dean had avoided anything requiring him to actually study until his senior year. So it happened that they shared a history course together. Sam was the youngest in the class, and Dean the oldest, and Dean saw no moral dilemma with borrowing his brother's homework to get him through. Sam suspected the teacher knew but did not care. Dean was looking to graduate, and that was more than any of them had hoped for.

So it was when he had pulled Sam's notebook from his backpack to copy his work that he had found the bandages at the bottom of it. Sam had never seen his brother so angry as when he tried to explain clumsily that it had to do with time spent alone with Gordon after school.

"The fuck, Sammy? Seriously, what the fuck? Is this you or him?"

"Dean-"

"You or him?" he had roared.

"Him. I mean, me. He's the one who likes it, I mean. Those are...they're for me."

The green eyes flashed with fury. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to rip his fucking lungs out!"

Sam had grabbed his arm. At the time, he was much smaller and Dean had a great deal more muscle and weight, but everything Sam was made of was channelled into stubbornness. "Dean, wait! It's no big deal!"

"No big deal?" Dean had screamed. "You're a fucking child!"

Sam had jerked ramrod straight at those words, stunned into silence.

"You want to play blood sports when you're thirty, fine. But you're a fucking child. I'm not letting some guy cut on you because he gets off on it."

"It isn't like that!"

Dean had sucked his breath in through his teeth in an effort to cool his temper. "Good. Great. Then what is it like?"

"I'm not telling you what I do with my boyfriend!"

The calm madness in Dean's voice made him shiver. "Yes. You are. Because I'm kicking someone's ass today. If you'd like me to add you to that list, fine."

Sam had glowered at him and crossed his arms over his chest defiantly.

"Sammy," Dean said in a dangerously quiet voice.

The younger boy had licked his lips, and tears were threatening to spill over. Shame was pouring through him like a hot flush. That was how he knew Dean was right. If what Gordon did to him was fine, why was he so ashamed of Dean knowing about it? Not just embarrassed, not just indignant about the invasion of privacy. Ashamed.

"Sammy?"

"It wasn't a big deal when we started," he muttered in capitulation, refusing to meet those green eyes. "Just something he wanted to try. But it got to where...it wasn't just playing anymore. He likes hurting me. And when I told him I wanted to stop, he..."

Dean waited, but he could feel the older boy's breath becoming shallow.

"Dean, he's the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. I know it isn't perfect. But he puts up with all of my shit. If all he needs is this one thing, I can do that. He'd never really hurt me, okay? Please don't say anything to him. Please. Dean, when you're somebody like me, high school sucks enough when you're _with_ someone. I don't want to be alone."

His brother was speaking through his clenched teeth. "Sam, you stop this. Or I will."

"I will. I promise."

It was three days after that Dean had returned to the locker room after practice to retrieve his leather jacket after the rest of the team had gone home. The scene had stopped him cold.

Sam was forced up against the lockers, nearly off his feet. Years later, he could still feel Gordon's hand on the back of his neck, fingers curled deep into his skin, holding him trapped without mercy.

"I'm sorry," he had choked without a voice. "I'm sorry!"

"Damn right you're sorry! You ever try to tell me what to do again-"

Dean was on him then, throwing the larger boy clear across the room. Sam had fallen to the floor, sobbing in humiliation. "You do that to my little brother, I'll kill you!" he screamed as he threw his fist into Gordon's face again and again.

"Dean, stop!"

But the senior was too far into his blood rage to hear him. Gordon managed to land one solid punch, and Dean wore the black blue bruise on his eye like a badge of honor the next day at school. He had stopped just short of putting Gordon in the hospital, and had even called a teammate to come get him. When the guy had arrived to see the bloody mess, he had taken one look at Dean and clamped his mouth shut, choosing to simply help the junior limp from the locker room.

Gordon had spared one look of loathing for Sam, who was sitting behind Dean in a corner, trying to make himself as small as possible. "You'll never be better than trash, Winchester. You're a freak, and you'll be lonely your whole freak life." Then he had spat out a bloody tooth and let the guy lead him out the door.

Sam had watched him go, then turned on his brother like an angry, frightened dog. "I hate you," he hissed. "I hate you so much. I'll never forgive you for this."

His brother had nodded and proceeded to clean the blood from his hands and the floor while Sam turned to run.

Weeks later, Sam had apologized to his brother. Dean had taken a breath and spoken softly. "You don't ever have to say that to me. You know that."

"I was just angry."

"I know. Sam, you could have kicked his ass yourself. You aren't this weak kid you pretend to be, and it kills me that you let people walk on you when you're strong enough and smart enough to protect yourself. Just...why?"

He had swallowed down the humiliation. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Sam, don't. Don't do it with me, okay?" He was shocked to see tears filling the green eyes, to see Dean blinking against it. "Don't ever do it with me. I can't..." Dean had shaken his head and backed away, effectively ending the conversation.

He had not brought it up again. High school had been one nightmare after another. By his senior year, he had towered over everyone in the school, and could no longer hide behind anyone. The echo of Gordon's parting words and the glares he had withstood had stayed with him, had followed him to Stanford.

_You'll never be better than trash. Freak. You'll be lonely your whole freak life._

It was like a prophecy, and Sam had felt it coming true day by day. It pushed him to prove it wrong, by accepting comfort and affection in any form it was presented. He had to prove Gordon wrong. He had to be worth loving. He would do anything to feel, just for a while, as though he were better than trash.

Dean did not even know about most of his mistakes. It would only make him angry. Dean would never understand. He couldn't know how every day that went by made him more desperate to rise above Gordon's prophecy, or how every mistake brought him closer to realizing its fulfillment. The only exception had been Jess, whom he had found his third year at Stanford, who had died the week before graduation day.

And now, years after his best chance at love had burned to ash, he was more desperate than he had ever been to shed that destiny. But he had promised himself after the day he had left Brady that he was done with swallowing poison just to keep from starving. Brady had made him beg, had actually made him beg, while spewing those taunts at him. The final words had made Sam snap. For the first time since he was fourteen years old, someone had called him trash and freak.

At that moment, Dean's rage from a decade before had rolled through him like thunder, and he had lifted himself to his full height and told Brady to get out and never come back. Brady had been shocked, had insisted that Sam was being stupid, that he would never find anyone to love him again if he threw Brady away. Sam had said nothing, but had stood his ground. Brady had laughed at him, and accused him of making Brady leave because he couldn't stand to hear the truth. "That's an interesting theory," Sam had whispered as the door slammed behind the blond man forever.

He had slept with Jess's tee shirt on his pillow for weeks after that. Every time he wanted to call Brady and beg his forgiveness, he cried apologies to the shirt instead. It hadn't smelled like Jess in a long time, but it was his only connection to the man. Everything had been lost in the fire except for a few photos on Sam's laptop and the shirt which was in Sam's backpack at the time.

"Crash and burn," Jess had teased him once when he had wondered aloud what he would do without him. And hadn't he? The strength and confidence he had built up while Jess had loved him had been shed like ill-fitting clothing, leaving the true Sam exposed and vulnerable.

Sam stared down at the text message and sighed. "Crash and burn," he muttered. "Why not? I'm due for another mistake." He pressed send and lay down to run the memories through his mind again just to be sure he did not forget how pathetic he was, even for a second.


	4. The Man Who Would Be Catholic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same Sunday...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having fun with the chapter titles. Can you tell?

Castiel was seated at church, silently judging the deacon, when the phone in his pocket buzzed. He frowned down at it, then raised an eyebrow and returned it to its place inside his coat. He went back to correcting the historical context behind Paul's letters inside his head, though after a few minutes, his mind began to wander. Practiced discipline brought him back to the homily, and got him through the rest of the service.

"Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed," he whispered with the rest, and stood to wait, his hands clasped loosely together in front of him as most of those around him accepted communion. He murmured the appropriate responses to the ministers' voices. "Thanks be to God," he concluded.

He remained a moment as the congregation filed out around him. Castiel had always liked the peace following a Mass, when the music had finished but the place still smelled like offering. And waiting prevented the inevitable social interaction he failed at so miserably. He knelt, accompanied by just three others, a very old nun and an elderly couple. He did not pray, but watched them instead. He liked to wonder what their prayers were about.

"Are you waiting for confession?" a voice asked softly behind him.

Castiel's eyes closed briefly. "And have been for nearly fifteen years," he muttered bitterly. But he smiled up at the man. "No. Thank you."

There came a frown in the old priest's eyes. "Son, do you choose never to confess?"

He laughed quietly. "No, sir. You choose that I should not confess. Not confess nor take communion. It's a sin to partake of the Church's blessings and salvation when you live in opposition to God's will."

The priest sighed. "I would never deny you confession."

"It isn't a confession if I'm not sorry."

The older man sat on the pew beside him, and Castiel joined him. "So? Why do you come?"

"I love God and I like church. It doesn't really matter if God and the Church don't like me."

A soft chuckle touched his ears. "I see. So don't confess that part then."

Castiel was surprised. "What does it matter what else I confess and get absolved if there's still that hanging over my mortal soul?"

The priest shrugged wearily. "Who knows? Maybe the Church got that part wrong. Maybe God is utterly indifferent to sexual orientation. I'd hate to think you didn't confess your sins because you thought that was one."

A slow smile spread across Castiel's face then. "The Church is infallible," he argued dryly.

"Yeah? Why we keep apologizing then?" He shook his head. "What's your name, son?"

"Castiel."

"Hm. An angel's moniker. That's got to be worth something right there. Okay, Castiel. You eat meat on Friday?"

The blue gaze was filled with amusement. "I'm a vegetarian."

"Okay. You're one sin ahead of me then."

Without meaning to, Castiel burst into quiet laughter.

"Castiel, the point is this. God knows when we are trying our best and he knows when we are just going through the motions. You're here. That's more than most. And you believe. And you say you love the Lord. Do you think He honestly needs more than that? He's God, Castiel. He knows better than anyone how human we are, and I can't believe He would blame us for it. He's got a lot more to weigh in our souls than who we loved here on earth. Maybe I'm wrong, and if I am I wish He'd speak up. But I really think He just wants us to do the best we can in the world He made for us. Wants us to come when he finally calls. If He made you the way you are, and it isn't hurting your soul or anyone else's, I have to believe that's what matters. Otherwise, after all my life serving Him and teaching the Word, I'm going to burn for having a cheeseburger when my iron is low on Fridays instead of popping a pill, and I’ll save you a seat by the fire." He patted Castiel on the knee, then stood. "If you ever want to confess, you have my blessing, for whatever that's worth. And I hope you'll take communion next time."

Castiel thought about the man's words the whole walk back to his apartment. That was a rare priest if he had ever met one. Perhaps he would take him up on the offer one day. He had fifteen years of sins to work off. It would probably be in his best interest to get started.

The thought of confession made his chest tighten. As angry with Heaven and the Church as he had been for writing him off, he had never stopped believing. It was so deeply a part of him that he could not imagine his life without it. It was devastating to love so devotedly while knowing he had been dismissed as broken even before his Confirmation. Communion, that was a parlor trick. But confession. His faithful heart ached for that.

His students would probably be shocked to know he almost never missed a weekly Mass. Dr. Novak, the sarcastic professor who struck down every line of King James and pointed out every historical inconsistency within the dogma of every organized religion, especially Catholicism, could not possibly believe in a higher power. But he did not find academic study and faith to be mutually exclusive. In fact, he felt his faith was stronger for his insistence upon questioning every aspect.

He was nearly at the apartment building by the time he remembered the message. He lifted his phone to read it again.

"Had fun the other night. Thanks so much for covering the tab! Would love to return the favor soon!"

There were no useful pronouns there. In fact, if the brothers across the hall were not the only social interaction he'd had in as long as he could remember, he would not even know who the message was from at all.

So? Was it Dean or Sam, or was the message from them both? Did the two of them want him to join them again, was Dean looking for a drinking companion, or was this Sam? And if it was Sam, was this proposition casual or did it mean more?

He smirked at himself. Just a moment ago, he was thinking of confession. Now his thoughts were bordering on sinful.

Lovely blessing or seductive temptation, Sam Winchester was the most beautiful thing he had seen in a very long time, and he was determined to have him. He had been plagued by dreams of the man since the night they had met for drinks. Castiel could not get the vision of Sam’s reaction out of his head. He had even caught himself thinking of it during a lecture regarding the casting out of Lucifer. From nowhere, his mind had dredged up the look Sam had given him when Castiel had raised one eyebrow and his chin and licked his lips while listening to something he had said. Sam had stopped speaking and begun stammering immediately. Dean had jumped in to finish the story, and Castiel had turned away from the younger man as a kindness, but he had heard nothing else that was said until he had put away another White Russian. He had deliberately not looked back at Sam again, but the damage was done.

Castiel wanted to make Sam’s eyes widen and his words catch again.

But this was not Castiel’s first fall into sin. He was nothing if not patient. A man like Sam needed a certain type of pursuit, deserved the full treatment, and Castiel intended to take his time and do things right. It would make the fall that much more delicious in the end.


	5. Heaven Can Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday and Wednesday texts...

Edgar was tapping out a rhythm on his clipboard with his pen. It was enough to make Sam want to slap it out of his hands. But he stood and waited silently for the inevitable criticism. Finally, the man looked up. “And that’s all the research you could find?”

Sam deliberately unclenched his teeth. “Yes, sir. I even did a little…extra digging on my own time. There’s nothing that isn’t there.”

The man nodded slowly, glancing through the papers again. “And by extra digging, I assume you mean with methods which would not lead back to the big Dick.”

A small smirk had to be bitten back. Edgar was loyal to the firm, without a doubt, but there was a decidedly disgusted way he looked at Richard Roman as a necessary evil that Sam could not help but take some pleasure in. “Of course, sir,” he murmured.

He shrugged. “Then I guess this is as good as it’s going to get. I’ll present it to him as is.” He looked at Sam again, this time with his usual rough but not unkind smile. “And I’ll run some interference for you.”

Sam breathed out in relief. “Thank you, sir.”

Edgar snorted softly, then stood to clap the paralegal on the arm. “You’re good, kid. Nobody digs like you do, and Dick is lucky to have you. We’d clone you if we could. But you know it all comes rolling downhill if he doesn’t have a strong enough case. Isn’t your fault, but he’ll make it your problem.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyway, there are some angles here I can work with. They’re obviously crossing county lines, and regardless of whatever else they’re doing, we can get them in violation of about twelve different statutes just for that.”

“Yes, sir. I thought so too.”

The older man watched him for a moment. “Not what you thought it’d be like, huh, kid?”

Sam cleared his throat. “I’m grateful for the opportunity,” he replied automatically.

He received a laugh in return. “Good kid. Smart kid. But for better or worse, you’ll never be a Richard Roman, Sam. You don’t have the teeth for it. So I hope you got a plan B.”

It was impossible to hold back the flinch, but Sam followed it with a nod. “Yeah. I’m working on that. Thank you, sir.”

With that, Sam found himself alone in his office, at seven o’clock in the evening on a Tuesday, wondering what he was doing with his life. For the first time in weeks, he wanted to call Brady. He stared down at his dark phone for several minutes, reminding himself what a stupid idea that was. He knew that if he caught Brady between victims, it would be the easiest thing in the world to beg him into letting Sam come over to make it up to him. Listening to Sam say he was sorry, and hearing that he had been right all along, would be all it would take. Dean would kick his ass for it, but it might be worth it until then. Nobody lied like Brady.

Whether he was reaching for his phone to call a man he had kicked out three months ago, or he was just moving to put it in his pocket, he was not sure, but when his screen flashed on, it no longer mattered.

_I might be free Friday evening, next week. Perhaps somewhere quieter?_

Sam’s breath caught in his throat. It was the text reply he had waited for all Sunday and Monday, the one he had given up on by Tuesday morning. The one he had berated himself about for two long nights. The one that was making it painfully uncomfortable to risk walking in and out of their apartment building.

Then he frowned and breathed again. “Friday next week?” The man had taken two days to answer, and when he did, it was to send mixed signals. Friday evening at a quiet place, that was a date. Waiting two weeks? That made it casual. What was this guy’s deal, anyway? Did he just think Sam had nothing better to do than to…

Okay, it was pretty clear Sam had nothing better to do, so that wasn’t really the point. The point was that he had no idea if he should write this guy off as a neighbor who would probably call the police if he heard a murder taking place next door, or if he was dumb and oblivious enough to actually be interested in a guy like Sam. For that matter, how did he even know the guy was into guys at all? Dean seemed to think so, but Dean’s record was a bit spotty on that front. Sam thought the obvious recognition in Castiel’s eyes when Dean had mentioned Sidetrack was clue enough, but for that matter, Dean knew what Sidetrack was and he was undeniably straight. So? Maybe Castiel was too.

Sam gathered his things, and slipped his phone into his coat pocket to begin the trudge home. He had clocked out at five as always, but the job was never actually done. Roman refused to pay overtime, but he also refused to accept that as an excuse for any of his employees to head home when they had put in their hours. Not that he would say that, of course. That was illegal, and Richard Roman knew the law like no one else. It was simply understood that he was above it. So at seven thirty, Sam felt like he was sneaking out early.

He dialed Dean on his way to the parking garage. It was the perfect time to call his brother, because it was a long enough walk to have a quick conversation, but there was poor reception in the garage, so he could use that as his excuse to hang up when he wanted to.

“Hey, Sammy. You coming home for dinner?”

“No,” he snapped. “I’m going out. You coming?”

Dean paused. “Um. I guess I am. The hell is wrong with you?”

“My teeth aren’t sharp enough.”

“What the fuck-"

Sam growled audibly. “I’m heading to 750. You coming or not?”

“I said I’d come. Taverna 750, huh? Why we going all the way to the city?”

“Because I want to be as far from the apartment as possible, and I’m already in the city.”

“Uh. Okay then. Grab a table. It’s Tuesday, shouldn’t be too bad. I’ll get there soon. Mind if I invite Bobby?”

“You know he won’t come.”

“But I want him to know we’d like him to.”

“Whatever. I’m going into the garage. I’ll text you when I get a table.” He stalked toward his car and threw his laptop bag into the passenger seat and climbed in before locking the door. He did not even put his keys in the ignition. “So? Let me have it.”

“You’re doing it to yourself again.”

He ground his teeth together and stared through the windshield at nothing. “Maybe.”

“Maybe nothing. You are. Is this who you are now?”

His eyes flashed with anger and he turned toward the empty passenger seat at the memory of Jess shaking his head. “No, Jess, this is what I always was. This is what Sam Winchester is. What you refused to see even when it was right in front of you.”

“You weren’t like this with me.”

“You think that but I was.”

“You told Dean it was different with me.”

He swallowed hard. “You think I want my brother knowing I was just as desperate and pathetic with the love of my life as I was with freaking Brady? With any of the others?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Bullshit. I was every bit as fucked up with you as I am right now. I just spent every minute of every day hiding it, pretending for you that I was stronger than I am.” He put a clawed hand into his hair, and leaned against the steering wheel. “There’s something in me, something in my blood that makes me this monster, and I can’t wash it clean.”

“It’s grief and anxiety, Sam. That’s all it is.”

“That isn’t all it is, Jess! It’s me. At my deepest fucking level, I’m a mess. And yet I’m so desperate to not be alone that I inflict this ugly mess on anyone who will take it.”

“Dean’s right, you know. You let them walk on you. You always let them walk on you.”

Tears were flooding his face now. “Yeah. And I’m going to let him do it too. This Castiel guy. If he will just give me half a chance, I’ll beg him to walk on me. Because I’m stupid, and I never learn that it’s not better than being alone.”

“You let them feed you poison to keep from starving. Your words, not mine.”

He smiled softly through the tears. “All your words are mine now, Jess.”

The memory sighed as it recognized the dismissal and faded into nothing, leaving only the bitter cold behind. Sam took a breath, wiped his face, and started the car.

***

Castiel was teaching his Christian Beginnings course Wednesday morning when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He smiled to himself and continued his lecture about the commonly misunderstood relationship between the terms Son of God and Son of Man. When he was satisfied that every student’s face was filled with confusion, he assigned the research essay and listened contentedly to the horrified moans from those who had not taken a course with him before. Those who had leaned over in their seats to console their friends or tell them they told them so. Dr. Novak did not stick to a syllabus. He did not care about your other responsibilities or commitments. He seemed to assign research on a whim. He was an evil, evil man. And yet his students adored him.

He had taught just two semesters at this school, one while living in an extended-stay hotel for four months while waiting for an acceptable apartment to open up. But these students were just like those at his former liberal arts university. They would complain about his methods, cry foul when he swerved off the syllabus, and lament the unreasonable amount of work he gave. But every semester, they would register for his class again. His classes always had waiting lists a mile long. This semester had been no different. Now that he had taught a full semester, his new classes were filled to bursting. Considering what he put his students through, he had never understood why they flocked to him.

It was not until he had closed his office door that he pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked his message. A small smile crept onto his face. Just as he had thought, Sam had waited until the morning to respond. He was convinced now that it was Sam he was communicating with. Had it been Dean, the response would have come right away or not at all. No, this was Sam, and he had tried to hold out on a reply just as Castiel had done to him, but had lasted only the night.

Castiel’s sheer boredom with most of humanity was always countered by a complete fascination with just one human at a time. In general, he relied on his reputation for unmatchable conceit to avoid socializing with colleagues and anyone else he encountered.

It had been a long time since anyone had caught his attention the way Sam Winchester had. He had been surprised to find himself enjoying Dean’s company, but it was no shock that he had agreed to join them in the first place. Sam’s invitation had come replete with tiny, irresistible emotions flitting across his handsome face. The awkward way the man failed at appearing nonchalant had been entirely too adorable. Then he had purposely given Dean his undivided attention the whole night, and let Sam watch him. The small gestures he did make toward the large man were Castiel indulging in throwing Sam off balance with just his eyes. When he finally succeeded in making Sam completely lose his breath and concentration when he’d raised his eyebrow at him, Castiel had savored that moment throughout the next week as he waited for Sam to contact him. Now it was three days later, and the dance continued.

“My brother’s busy that night, but I could do something. Do you know Taverna 750?”

Long fingers flew over the keyboard, and he flipped through restaurant reviews. “Hm. In the city. But not half a mile from Hydrate. Nice, Sam. Strike out with me, and you can pick up someone less than a block away.” He smiled to himself at the thought of getting Sam frustrated enough to wander into a club which was obviously not the man’s style at all, just to go the easy route. Then he shrugged. “Probably not. Probably this place because you work in the city, so you’ll be there already, and you want to keep things as far away from the apartment building as possible. We’ll have to drive separately. Covering all your bases, Sam,” he murmured. “You are one damaged pup, aren’t you? That’s all right.”

It was all right because Castiel intended to heal it all. He had seen Sam’s history in one glance when the man thought he wasn’t looking. It was all there in his eyes. The details were impossible to know, but it was clear to Castiel the man had lost someone, and was desperate to fill the hole left behind. It was also obvious Sam did not think much of himself. The way he had tried to shrink every time Castiel had turned his eyes on him had told him all he needed to know. It wasn’t shyness. It wasn’t disinterest. It was a fear that Castiel would see how unworthy of attention he really was.

When Castiel was done with him, Sam would know exactly how deserving he truly was. Until then, the professor would soak in the deliciousness of the dance. Sam would not accept anything which was too easy, so Castiel did not intend to let him stay on balance and in control for any length of time. He had seen the man’s eyes, and he knew Sam needed to be told no before he would believe in any yes. He smiled to himself as he picked up the phone to tap his response, without bothering to make Sam wait any longer.

***

Dean was leaning on the doorway, drinking a beer, watching the scene silently. He puffed out his cheeks as he sighed. “Need help?”

His little brother glared at him.

“Guess not,” he muttered, taking another gulp. He watched another moment, then cleared his throat. “You knew he was weird.”

“I didn’t know he was a sadist.”

This earned him a quirk of lips. “Dude. Sadist is a bit strong.”

Sam tossed his blue sweater onto the floor. Dean considered himself lucky that this article of clothing had not been thrown at him like the last one. “As a guy who’s dated sadists, I’m telling you, I recognize them.”

His smile slipped into a look of disgust. “Dude, don’t even tell me.”

“Not that kind, jackass. The not-fun kind. The kind that likes to keep throwing you off just because it gives him a hard-on.”

“How is that not-" He stopped when a jacket smacked him in the face.

“For the last time, I’m not into that! Not that it would be any of your business.”

Dean shrugged and drained his beer. “I don’t remember it ever taking you this long to get ready for a date with Bratty.”

“Brady, Dean. You know his name. And that’s because I usually met Brady right after work. And I knew what he liked anyway. What the hell do I even know about this guy?”

“You know he likes you.”

“That’s bullshit too, you know. I went through our messages, and I realized I never gave him my name. For all I know, he thinks you’re the one he’s meeting tonight!”

“I doubt that.” He sighed. “Sam, I don’t get why you’re so nervous.” 

His brother stopped tossing clothes and stared into the mirror in silence.

Dean swallowed hard. He hated seeing Sam like this. The way he looked at himself in the mirror made Dean want to shake him. What had gone wrong inside this kid’s head that made him hate everything he saw in that reflection? How had Dean failed him over the years, to turn him into this fountain of insecurity and anxiety? Dean himself never dated women who were not bursting with confidence. He loved the idea that every woman he spent time with had a full life that did not need him in it. He never wanted to walk away from a woman thinking he had taken something from her. He did his best to leave every woman feeling that her confidence was completely justified. Seeing Sam this way, hating himself so transparently, made him want to tie him to a chair until he had listened to and accepted every reason Dean had ever looked up to him, and none of them had to do with the man’s height.

He could not have said when he first realized that his hero was the gawky kid who followed him around everywhere and tried to hide behind him in public. Every time he had overheard some kid in high school tell Sam that his older brother was so cool, and Sam had shot back, “Yeah, he thinks so,” Dean’s heart had filled to bursting with pride. He would never know what it was that made him happy about that the fact that Sam saw through all his crap but loved him anyway. He had never accepted Dean’s tough exterior as his only quality, but he had never made Dean feel guilty that it was the only thing he showed others. Sam knew him better than anyone, and he loved him anyway. Dean would have killed for that kid.

So what had gone wrong?

Sam rolled his eyes at the mirror and went back to work. “You wouldn’t,” he responded finally.

Dean could not argue with that, as much as he wanted to. He had never understood Sam. Certainly not this part.

At last, the younger man turned to him with a sad smile. “You like him?”

He shrugged. “I been wrong before,” he reminded him quietly. “But something about him…Yeah. I like him.” When Sam nodded, he spoke up again. “But, Sammy, if you don’t, or if you’re just not into it right now, just tell him that.”

“You know I liked him.”

A sigh escaped Dean’s lips and he nodded. Sam had been a mess ever since the text had come in. Apparently, he had received a simple “Ok” earlier in the day, which had made him crazy, but then another text had arrived just as Sam was arriving home at six thirty. “Turns out that day won’t work for me. I’m free tonight. Meet you at Krasivaya at seven?” Sam had flown into a frenzy, during which it seemed to have not even occurred to him that saying no was an option.

“Wear the green,” Dean said. “It looks good.”

Without a blink of hesitation, Sam threw on his green sweater and clawed at his hair. “It’ll have to be good enough,” he grumbled.

“You look fine, kiddo. Relax. Just have a good time. If you decide you don’t like him, just be polite, and I’ll go back to freaking him out in the laundry room.”

Finally, Sam laughed. “Thanks. You’re a good brother.”

“And, Sammy? If he ends up being an asshole, you drop that. You don’t need that shit in your life.”

“Yeah. I know.” He smiled softly at Dean’s concern. “Thanks.”

Dean shook his head as he watched the door shut behind his brother. “Kid, you’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered to himself.


	6. Rock and a Russian Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What may or may not be a date with a hot guy...

For what it was worth, Sam had planned everything out beautifully. Taverna 750 was a nice place, but not too stuffy. He had made Dean meet him there yesterday so he could check it out with Castiel in mind. It was far enough from the apartments so they would have to drive separately. That was perfect in case things got weird. If things went badly, there was no uncomfortable ride home together. If things went well, Sam would have the ride home to get his head straight. If things seemed to be going well, but then Castiel was not interested? There was always easy pickings less than a block away at Hydrate. It wasn't Sam's style, but sometimes Dean was right about easy, and it would take the edge off a rejection.

Perfect, except for the part where Castiel had changed the script, and given him a half hour to get to some Russian place he had never been to, and didn't know how to dress for. God, this guy was going to be more high maintenance than Tyson Brady had ever been. He didn't even know what Russian food was. Potatoes and sausage or something. Or was that German?

His irritation crumbled at the sight of him.

Castiel leaned against the brick building, holding his coat over one arm, with one foot flat against the wall. Something about that pose took Sam's breath away. It was so easy, so completely, devastatingly aloof and confident. Who was this guy? How could a man who seemed so socially alien at times have more confidence in his little finger than Sam had in all six feet four and a half damn inches? It was utterly unfair for Castiel to care so little about other people's opinions when Sam cared so much. It was unfair, and it was incredibly attractive.

The man turned his intense blue eyes to capture Sam without warning.

Sam nearly missed a step.

Two seconds-an eternity-into their locked gaze, Castiel's face broke into a smile. When the eyebrow peaked and the chin came up, and the tongue washed those lips, Sam's heart nearly stopped. He took a breath to steady himself.

Who was this guy?

"Hey, Castiel," he murmured now that he was close enough.

"Hello, Sam."

The voice made him shiver, and he tried to dampen it down by shoving his hands in his pockets. "I...got your message," he said stupidly. "I'm sorry if I'm late. I thought walking would be faster than trying to find parking on this street. So...you know. Sorry."

Castiel shook his head. "Never apologize to me, Sam."

He blinked. "What?"

The deep voice was nearly hypnotizing when Castiel spoke again, slowly this time. "Do not apologize again."

Sam's lips parted, but he did not speak. Instead, he shrugged with one shoulder in a defensive way, to indicate that he did not understand.

The other man smiled again, and opened the door to the restaurant for him. "I have a table for us." A strong hand was placed gently at the small of his back to lead him from behind. Through the coat and the sweater, Sam could feel the warmth of the hand and the weight of it. Somehow it felt natural, when it really should not.

Sam walked as if in a dream to where Castiel guided him. He was vaguely aware that the staff was waving at Castiel. "They know you here?" he croaked.

"They know everyone," Castiel said.

Somehow, Sam doubted that was true. He sat at the table Castiel indicated, then looked around him. He realized that there were many available, but they were seated in a section where the chairs and tables were higher than others. He smiled to himself, and could feel a warm blush cross his cheeks and ears.

Castiel sat across from him and watched his face. "Did I choose the right place?"

He looked into the blue eyes. "That was...considerate. Thoughtful."

He shrugged, and did not bother to pretend he didn't know to what Sam was referring. "There is nothing wrong with making yourself and your own comfort a priority, nor in expecting friends to make you their priority as well."

Sam could not help the way he knew he was staring. "I don't know if anyone other than my brother has ever even thought about it before. Why would they? Anyway, most places don't have the option of more leg room. So you've been here before, I guess."

"A number of times."

The waiter approached them with menus and a smile. "Dyadya, welcome."

Castiel smiled kindly. "Thank you, Petr. This is my friend Sam."

Petr treated Sam to a broad smile. "A friend of uncle is friend to us all! First drink on me, eh?"

Sam blinked at Castiel.

"Thank you, Petr."

He heard the men exchanging Russian words, but did not bother trying to listen. Instead, he found himself watching Castiel's lips forming the strange words.

Castiel was laughing quietly. "Da. I think so too," he replied. "Sam, what are you drinking tonight?"

"Uh...when in Rome, right? So what? Vodka?"

Petr grinned and smacked Sam hard on the back. "See? Good man! I tell you, uncle, good man! Stolichnaya Gold shot for him, eh?"

The other man smiled and nodded. "And start the rassolnik heating, will you?"

"Yes, uncle!"

Sam watched the young man hurry away, then turned back to Castiel. "Uncle?"

"Anyone with an ounce of Russian heritage could be called that."

It was hard to believe that was the entire story, but he nodded. "You're going to have to help me with the menu," he murmured with a smile.

He nodded. "Their attempts at translations were a bit ambitious. Why don't you tell me what you like? I'm a vegetarian, so I'm going to have a soup, but it isn't something I would suggest for what I'm assuming is your first authentic Russian meal. You eat chicken, I know, and you like spice. What else?"

After some back and forth, a little laughter and a little blushing, Castiel had determined that something called pelmeni would be a good choice. He expressed this to Petr when he returned with their drinks, then sat back to watch Sam try the vodka.

He was extremely aware of the blue eyes fixed on him. He tasted the shot carefully. "Wow," he laughed. "That's really good." He threw back half of it, but saved the rest, letting the fresh burn fill his mouth and throat.

"I'm glad."

"Yeah, what was he saying when he first came?"

Castiel smiled. It somehow reminded Sam of a cat. "He said, 'Uncle, this friend of yours is quite handsome.' I told him I agreed."

The blush was burning his ears now. He threw the rest of the shot back. He tried to laugh. "Russians don't have good vision?"

"We have excellent vision," Castiel corrected. "And an exceptional eye for beauty."

Immediately, Sam wished he had another drink. Even water would do. Anything.

"Compliments make you uncomfortable, don't they, Sam?" It was barely even a question.

Again, he forced a snicker. "Everything makes me uncomfortable," he muttered without meaning to. He looked up. "I don't know why I said that. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, Sam," he was reminded quietly.

His skin was beginning to ache the way it did when he wanted to be touched badly. It was very distracting. "I-I don't mean to," he stammered.

"That's just another apology. You do that a lot, don't you?" The incredible voice was still quiet. "Sam, I enjoyed meeting you before. And I'm grateful you came tonight. I've been thinking of you."

Sam tried to focus on breathing like a normal person. He had been scripting things to say to Castiel, but none of it was coming to mind. Not while that gorgeous man was watching him.

"Sam, is it all right that I find you attractive?"

His heart was pounding. "Yes. I mean, no, I don't..."

Castiel's hand was on his then. "Why are you here, Sam?"

He frowned in confusion. Off balance. Everything was off balance. "I don't know. You asked me. You told me to meet you."

"What were you expecting?"

He stared at their fingers touching. Castiel's hand was surprisingly gentle. He could not remember the last time he had been caressed in a way that felt so safe, so natural. "I don't know," he murmured.

"Then what were you hoping?"

He took a shuddered breath. "I think...I think I'd like to know you better. You're...different."

Castiel chuckled. "Am I?" he teased. "I'm not like every neighbor you've ever had?"

"Not like anyone I've ever known." It was more than he had meant to say, but it had slipped out on its own. That was happening more and more around this man.

"Is it a good thing?"

More accidental honesty tumbled past his lips. "I don't know yet. You're probably one of the smartest men I've ever met."

"Probably," Castiel agreed.

Sam laughed nervously. "Yeah, and then there's the complete lack of false modesty."

He nodded. "Yes."

"I don't know," he said again. "You're either amazing or an asshole."

Castiel's smile spread. "I'm not sure those are mutually exclusive qualities. Perhaps I'm an amazing asshole."

Sam laughed again.

"And what about you, Sam?"

"What about me?"

"You're different too, aren't you?"

It was distracting the way Castiel had not moved his hand from Sam's. Maybe it had just been too long since he had been touched, but it was making the skin everywhere else itch frantically for the contact his hand was receiving.

"I'm..." He had no idea how to continue. Castiel's hand and his eyes were all he knew.

"Beautiful," Castiel supplied in a low voice. "You're beautiful, Sam. And you met me here because you were hoping I had noticed."

When his lips parted, it was just to emit a soft whimper that pushed his warm pink blush into hot scarlet.

Petr arrived with water and bread, and Sam had never been more grateful. "Another vodka?" he asked.

"Yes. Please," Sam choked.

"Double, Petr," Castiel said softly. After the young man had walked away, Castiel sat back in his chair, releasing Sam's hand.

Sam suddenly felt cold all over, the absence of the touch making his whole body protest.

The blue eyes locked onto his were filled with nothing but intelligence and kindness. "Sam, I know you feel like you've been jerked around. Like I've been less than clear on my end."

He sighed with something like relief. "A little," he admitted. "I mean...yeah. I don't know where we are or how we got here. I sure as hell don't know where we're going. For all I know, you're just a jackass who likes to mess with people's heads. I have no idea."

"Could be," he said with a smile. Then he shook his head. "Sam, I wanted to see you out of your comfort zone."

Hazel eyes rolled as he gave a sheepish smile to his own bread plate. "Joke's on you, buddy. I don't have a comfort zone. The whole world is my discomfort zone! And you're kind of the mayor of it right now."

Castiel was laughing then, and it was such a comfortable laugh that Sam could take no offense. "No, Sam. I want to see you when you don't have everything planned perfectly. You have a seat at the pub where you can see the door, where you can keep an eye on everyone who comes in, but you also have a clear line of sight to the bartender so you can indicate when he should slow your brother's drinks down. You order the same beer your brother does, and drink at exactly a third the speed, one for every three he enjoys. You even calculated exactly how the hot wings split between the two of you, so that you could be sure Dean was eating enough to compensate for his drinks, and it threw you off when I chose not to eat any."

Sam pulled a piece of the bread and stared at it. How had this guy noticed all these things when Sam had been convinced he was being overlooked all evening? "Yeah. I didn't realize you were a vegetarian. And it confused the hell out of me when you paid the tab. Asking you out with us at all was kind of an impulse, just to spite Dean, and I realized immediately I had thrown myself under the bus, because it was happening too fast for me to get ready. I was just glad we were somewhere I knew.”

"You plan everything, don't you? Taverna 750. You had a plan for that too, didn't you?"

The blush deepened. "I guess so." He snorted and shrugged. "It was a good plan."

"I'm sure it was. You thought you had ten days to prepare. You’d have time to plan out what you would wear, order and say."

"Maybe."

"I knew I wasn't going to get the real Sam Winchester out of an evening like that."

The smile disappeared, and Sam gestured to himself with frustration. "What, and this is better? Look, man. It takes me hours to figure out what to say in a text to you. Why the hell would you want me to have to do this on the fly? Did you just suspect I was a complete wreck, and wanted to see it in full color? Here it is. The real Sam Winchester, one hundred percent pathetic loser, complete with a total inability to speak coherently while looking at a pair of amazing eyes. You want the real me? Thirty minutes to get to a restaurant twenty minutes away? That kind of me? Here I am. Now you know why I plan everything, because it minimizes the copious ways I could fuck up what may or may not be a date with a smart, hot guy."

"Yes."

"What?" Sam practically shouted. "Yes what?"

"Yes, that's what I wanted."

His mouth opened again, but all he could do was stare.

Castiel reached for his hand again. Warmth settled back into his skin, but it only intensified the aching everywhere else. "Because that Sam Winchester is intriguing. He has fantastic emotional responses because he hasn’t had a chance to wall them up. He is sensitive and smart, and I even detect a kind of wicked sense of humor in there somewhere. And he's unhappy, which makes me want to hold him, and heal him, and do whatever it takes to help him feel safe."

Sam shook his head. Tears were stinging his eyes now. "God, Castiel, are you even a real person?"

The blue eyes narrowed. "You bring up an interesting philosophical question."

He burst into laughter, allowing a tear to fly down his face. He swiped at it. "Why are you even interested in this?" he demanded. "You can see I'm a mess."

"Are you interested in me, Sam?"

"Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, I really am."

Castiel's smile was devastating. It made a tremble begin, deep inside him. "Sam, I don't think you're a mess. I think you're someone who needs to be treated right. I think you need a friend who appreciates the real you and helps you appreciate it too. Would you be willing to let me try to be that person?”

This time, he could only nod.

“Good.” The man sat back to look at him. “Is this your first authentic Russian meal, Sam?”

Sam felt as if he were getting dizzy. “What? Yeah.” Did Castiel just ask to start a relationship with him and then move immediately to cuisine? He put up his hand. “Wait. Wait.”

He continued smiling patiently.

“Can we start over?”

“Start what over?”

“Everything,” Sam whined.

Castiel began to laugh, and he sipped at his water. Then he nodded. “Hello, Sam. My name’s Castiel Novak. I’m of Russian heritage, and Catholic discipline. I’m a professor of religious studies. I do volunteer work for an organization that facilitates professional networking among gay, lesbian, transgender and otherwise non-normative individuals. I have a sister named Anna in New York. I moved from Massachusetts to Illinois during the summer, and recently moved into a decent apartment building across the hall from an extremely attractive paralegal whose brother is a bit of a harmlessly eccentric mechanic.”

Sam’s face ached with smiling, and burned with a blush. He chuckled softly. “See? Was that so hard?”


	7. Meet the New Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two days later...

Sam needed to get out of here. He knew that. But his brain did not speak as loudly as the rest of his body during internal debates, and the rest of his body was quite content where it was.

It would be entirely understatement to say that he had just enjoyed with Castiel the best night of sex he had ever had.

For one thing, it had been an _entire_ night of sex. Sam had never met anyone who was capable of keeping pace with his appetite. He had always had to temper his own desire to match that of his partner's. He had very often lay awake with a hollow feeling long after his lover had been satisfied. The gratitude he felt at being touched at all, at being permitted to provide pleasure to someone else, had always been enough.

Memories of past relationship dynamics seemed suddenly, wretchedly, inadequate. He now knew what the phrase “generous lover” meant.

Guy had been one of Sam’s typical mistakes. He was a sharply dressed, beautiful professional. He radiated confidence, and Sam had been swept up by his smile. He had worked as a reunion planner, though Sam had come to suspect he had other business on the side, which he never talked about with the paralegal. On their last night together, Guy had managed to talk Sam into one last fuck, and afterward, had revealed why Sam was doomed to be unhappy his whole life.

“I mean, look at you,” Guy had sneered, lying under a sheet on his crossed arms, not even bothering to dress or get up while Sam fought against tears and pulled his shoes on. “Look. You’re the worst kind of pathetic. Or the best kind, depending on which end of it you’re on. You just let me convince you to get me off before you go. What the hell is wrong with you, Sam? No, shut up. Listen. You’re going to walk out of here in a minute, and I’m never going to call you again, just like the guy before me. What was his name? Cyrus or something?”

Sam’s chest was heaving. “Tyrus,” he forced out as he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and head in his hands.

“Tyrus, whatever. You’re a freaking slut; I can’t keep up with your exes. So if I’m never calling you again, let me do you a favor and tell you why this happens to you.”

“Just let me go.”

“No, you know why? Because this is going to keep happening to you till somebody tells you the truth. Taking from you is too freaking easy. When was the last time I got you off? Huh? When was the last time I even fucking touched you?”

He closed his eyes. His skin was aching with the unfulfilled want.

“Yeah. Because it’s a hell of a lot more fun the other way around. Guys like me look for guys like you, and we’re going to keep taking as long as you’re willing to give, Sam. You’re a game to us. Prey. I can call you anytime I want you. I can make you do whatever I want you to do. Then I can break your heart if I want. All because I let you believe that if you do enough for me, maybe one day I’ll love you. Maybe one day I’ll give a damn about you. And by next week, you’ll be in some other guy’s bed begging him to take you and break you because he’ll promise you the same things.”

“Stop,” he hissed. “God, just stop.”

“You’re so pathetic, Winchester. Jesus, you were just begging for me to use you up. You’d do anything if a guy will just pretend to care about you. You do all the work for us. Truth is, you’re a good guy, Sam. But you’re better than a whore to a guy like me, because all I gotta pay you in is lies.”

He had slammed the door behind him, but he could hear the laugh, and he knew Guy could hear his sobs.

There had been a string of men like Guy after Jess. Ephraim had been one who had zeroed in on Sam’s grief and desperation in seconds. Ephraim was a nurse, but in addition to being a healer, he had been one of the sadists Sam had mentioned to Dean. He had been fascinated by the pain he could inflict just with a few carefully chosen words. Guy had been right. Men like that sought out a man like Sam who hated himself so much that he would do anything to feel loved, who felt so inferior that it took no effort to claim him with a promise. It was never physical pain Ephraim wanted, though that would do. It was humiliation he loved, which made Sam the perfect prey.

Ephraim was subtle. Tyrus had been brutal about his intentions. No one could say Tyrus had ever lead him on. Sam had done that all to himself. Tyrus had been the first after Jess, and Sam had felt so guilty about wanting to be touched that he had ended up with someone who had not even bothered to pretend Sam was anything more than “an amazing fuck and a damn good pool player.”

But Ephraim was different. He was a master at ripping Sam’s heart out just one word at a time. Since his preferred method of keeping Sam under his thumb was a whisper, it went on for over a year. He had said everything Sam had ached to hear. When he said he loved him, Sam knew he would do anything-anything at all-to keep this man coming back to him. He had lived and died by that soft voice in his ear.

“Sam,” he had purred, “God, Sam, that’s so good. I’m going to miss this one day.”

The words had sent a blade of panic through his spine. But he had continued tending to his lover with renewed passion borne of fear.

“Nothing lasts forever, does it, Sammy? Yeah, that’s it, baby. Like that. Love you so much, baby. You make me feel so good. Long as you feel like this, baby, I’m never letting you go.”

Another day, the message would be different. “Sam, you know I love you anyway, right?”

Sam had looked up from his studying to frown at Ephraim. “What do you mean?”

The man smiled sweetly. “I just want you to know that. No matter what. I’ll always love you anyway.” He kissed the top of Sam’s head and disappeared into the bedroom.

Confusion filled him, making it difficult to refocus on his textbook. A thousand thoughts floated through his mind as he tried to account for the “anyway.” Minutes passed as he ran through his mental list of deficiencies, until he was consumed with it. He closed his book quietly and slipped into Ephraim’s bedroom to find the man already undressed under the sheets with a smile on his face. “I, um…I love you too. Can I…do anything for you? Please? Let me?”

“Of course, Sam. Whatever you want.”

Sam had gulped in a breath. “I just want to make you happy. That’s all I want.”

One night, he had been nearly asleep when Ephraim had sighed heavily. He had moved to raise himself up on his elbow sleepily. “Eph? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Sam. Everything’s perfect. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Sam’s heart had fallen at the words. “No, Eph, really. What is it?”

The young blond man had kissed him gently. “Don’t worry about it, Sam. It’s always worth it to have you here.”

His heart had begun to pound, and he was suddenly wide awake. “Will you let me…Please, Ephraim. Why don’t you let me help you sleep? You always sleep better after.” He forced a laugh. “I haven’t gotten to touch you in a while anyway.”

Ephraim had shrugged. “What’s the point? You’re not going to be satisfied at the end of it.”

Sam had practically leapt onto the man. “Eph, please. I just want to touch you. Don’t worry about me. It’s enough just to touch you.”

He had turned his head but nodded his consent.

“Thank you,” Sam had murmured. “And…Eph, if I did something to upset you…I’m sorry.”

The smile was back, and Sam sighed with relief to see it. “It’s all right. You always know how to make it up to me.”

Sam had expressed his gratitude in the way he knew Ephraim liked best, then lay awake the rest of the night, listening to the man breathing beside him and hating himself.

He had not loved Ephraim. Never. But after a year of making himself sick with stress over him, it was hard to remember what love really felt like. Love was “please don’t leave me” and “I’ll do anything.” It was “I’m so sorry” followed by “just tell me what I can do to make this better.” Love was waiting alone, staring at a dark phone. It was turning down drinks with his brother just in case Ephraim wanted something from him. It was promises that he would redouble his efforts to be enough if Ephraim would stop seeking out other men. Love was being desperate to please and failing so completely. Love was lying awake, alone, wanting to die, and yet not wanting to inconvenience anyone with his death.

Love was eating his heart out for the third night alone in a row, curling up into the cold, and crying while he tried to remember how it felt to have Jess’s hand in his hair.

It had been years since any man had truly tried to bring him pleasure. Even when his lovers seemed interested in Sam’s happiness, they had quickly found his sexual appetite overwhelming, and determined it was not worth the effort.

So for him to be lying on Castiel’s bed, fully sated for the first time he could remember, it was something of a minor miracle. The most amazing part of the whole night was the way Castiel was looking at him now. Sam smiled up at him in quiet awe. “Cas,” he breathed happily.

“What else can I do for you, Sam?” the professor offered with sincerity that took Sam’s breath away.

“What else is there?” he laughed.

Castiel’s smile was a bit wicked. “There’s always more I can do,” he responded.

“Cas, isn’t there more I can do _for you_?”

The dark head shook slowly. “Sam, you’ve said that every few minutes all night long. We took care of me too. Stop worrying. It’s time someone put you first.”

Even in this pleasant exhaustion, Sam could practically hear his own defenses going up. “So? It’s been a fantastic night. But that’s it.”

Castiel was busy kissing along the veins of his wrist. “Hmm?”

“I’m serious. I don’t think we better do this again.”

To his surprise, the man laughed. “All right. We’ll do something different next time.”

“No, I mean…Look, I appreciate…You don’t even know how much I appreciate what you did tonight.”

“Which time?”

Sam felt his chest and face flush warm. “Every time,” he sighed.

His lover was running his fingertips up and down his arms in a way that ordinarily would have him bursting from his own skin aching for relief, but now that he was entirely spent, it simply felt comforting instead of teasing. Even so, he wished Castiel would stop. It made this even harder. He had never been good at protecting himself. He had rarely bothered to try. But he had promised himself after Brady-had promised Dean after Brady-that he was done with men like this. After all this time, he had finally decided being alone was better than being chewed up and spat out. And he could tell already that there would be no recovering from Castiel. This would be the one who could really and truly break him. This was not Gordon or Gabriel, not Tyrus or Guy. This was not even Brady or Ephraim. This? This was Jess. And if he was honest with himself in a way that threatened something sacred, this man might one day become more than Jess ever was.

And that was why he had to get out now.


	8. Heal House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning after...

Castiel had felt Sam’s walls crumble down, had loved the feel of it, the way the man had sighed as he gave up the last of his fear. It had been the victory he had worked for all evening, and it had not disappointed. The true face of Sam Winchester, without the suspicion and worry, was finally revealed, and it was beautiful. For that matter, so was the rest of him. Castiel had gone to work the moment he had gotten him into the bedroom. Without mercy and without tiring, he had dug his hands into the young man’s flesh, and extracted every whimper, every moan and sigh, every wild sound Sam had to give. He worshipped every inch of skin, soothed every muscle, and set his nerves dancing with a constant, shuddering ecstasy. Castiel knew his way around a beautiful body, and Sam was helpless beneath his touch.

It would take more than one night of bringing Sam’s walls down for it to last more than mere moments. It was no surprise to Castiel that he was already building them back up. Sam had been hurt, and badly. It would take more than one night of healing to make Sam understand that he was safe, that he would not be hurt here in these arms. It might take a lifetime of nights like tonight. But Castiel was up for that challenge.

He had known the moment he had seen Sam that he was the project the professor had sought his whole life. He had never found a creature so deserving of love and so deprived of it. This man’s heart was pocked with wounds, but one glance at his eyes told him it was a good heart at its deepest layer.

When Castiel found something worth his adoration, worthy of worship, he committed to it like a man possessed. No church nor its dogma could drag him from his God. Nothing would keep him from doing right by this man.

“I really do appreciate it,” Sam was saying now. “All of it. I just…don’t think we’d better go any further than this. This happened crazy fast. We had dinner Wednesday, then again last night and now we’re…and I just…I don’t…”

“Whatever you think is best, Sam,” he whispered as he continued kissing and caressing the man’s skin. “One more for the road?”

Sam stared at him with shock. “I…I can’t believe I’m saying this, but no.”

Castiel nodded and resumed his reverent idolatry. Sam had been ravenous all night long, and once he had convinced him, through whispers and constant touch, that it was all right to let Castiel know what he wanted, he had been nearly insatiable. He doubted any lover had ever even tried to wring out everything this man needed, and he knew Sam had never asked for it the way he should have. It was a shame. But it was also delicious to know he was likely the only man who had ever seen the beauty of Sam Winchester giving in to his fourth orgasm of the night.

“You aren’t making this easy.”

He lifted his blue eyes but continued kissing Sam’s skin devotedly.

“Cas…”

When he spoke, he did not raise his lips from the flesh below them. He let his warm breath float over the skin on Sam’s arms and got a deep satisfaction from the way it reacted. “Sam, you make the decisions here. You can leave anytime you like. You can stay as long as you like. But while you’re here, I will not stop doing what obviously makes you feel good. I’m sorry if that makes your decision more difficult. If you want me to stop, you have two options. You can leave. Or you can suggest to me another way to bring you the pleasure you deserve. I’m not a bad cook, for example.”

Sam was blinking as though he did not understand. Then, suddenly, he was blinking because there were tears forming in his eyes. “I don’t…I don’t want you to stop,” he sighed, humiliated, and lay back to glare at the ceiling. “God, Castiel, I know what’s coming, but I can’t help it. I just don’t want you to stop.”

“What’s coming?” he asked gently.

He could feel him gasping shallow breaths underneath him. “What this is, what it’s going to turn into. What it always turns into. It never matters that I see it coming. I can’t stop it. And I can’t say no to it. It’s like…like seeing a train coming, having plenty of time to get out of the way, and just staring into the lights instead.”

“Sam, you said I was different.” At last, he lifted his face to peer into Sam’s, though his fingers continued their work sliding tirelessly across the arms and chest and stomach.

The glare turned into a bitter laugh. “They’re always different. Every one of them. Until they’re exactly the same. What is it about me that screams out to men like you? What sign do I have painted on me that only men like you can see?”

“Men like me. What kind of man do you think I am, Sam?”

“The kind…” A sob choked in his throat, but he pushed through it. “The kind that knows in one look that I’m trash, just a freak. The kind that knows I’ll crumble with just a few lies. That I’ll do absolutely anything if you say the right things. The kind that knows that I’m trash and that I’m so…” The tears were rolling down his cheeks now. “…that I’m so fucking grateful for anything you give me that I’ll drink poison if you tell me it’s love.”

Castiel moved to hold him now, rocking him slowly. “Shh, Sam,” he soothed as he cradled the man’s head against his own chest. “It’s all right.”

The utter physical and emotional exhaustion was doing its work, ripping the truth from Sam’s throat. These were words Castiel had worked hard for tonight, and even though it was hard to hear the pain in the man’s voice, it was necessary if he had a chance at helping him heal. He had chosen a Friday night to claim Sam, to give them the weekend to begin the process.

“Sam,” he whispered to him. “Sam, tell me what you feel. Keep talking.”

“I can’t!”

“Shh. Yes you can. It’s all right.”

He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut against Castiel’s blue gaze.

“All right. Then listen. I’m going to tell you a little bit about me. Are you listening?”

Sam indicated that he was, but did not open his eyes.

“I’m a professor now. But I used to be a soldier. It wasn’t that long ago. It was straight out of high school. I hated the life. I was an excellent fighter. I was the one you wanted beside you if things got bad in the field, but I was not the one you wanted to share a barracks with. I mean, for one thing, you can see I’m obstinately messy.”

Slowly, the trembling man opened his eyes and let a tiny smile shine through his tears. “Maybe a little.”

Castiel smirked at him. “More than a little. It is my childish way of celebrating every day that I am no longer in the military.” He raised an eyebrow. “Of course, if I had a visitor over more often, I might be inclined to recall some of my training to make him more comfortable.”

The enormous man whose head was against his chest allowed the smile to grow fractionally, and Castiel considered it a small victory.

“You know the bond you’re supposed to build with fellow soldiers? I never wanted that. In general, I’m not an animal that is good in a pack. I don’t lead or follow well. I enjoy my own company and that of very few others. I do not communicate with any of my family, apart from my sister, and I have never joined any organization that did not further my own personal goals. I suppose I thought when I joined the military that being a strong fighter and having a tireless work ethic would make up for the fact that I don’t play well with others. It doesn’t work like that, and I got out as soon as I had the chance.” 

“Were you deployed?”

“I was. That was more tolerable, because I was often sent to translate or to interrogate, which are more solitary tasks. There’s a lot of Russian spoken in Afghanistan, you know.”

Sam nodded, and stared up at him with wide, clear eyes.

Castiel hurried forward, so as not to give Sam time to remember he wanted to run away. “I taught English after getting my masters, in a village east of Kiev. But I returned to defend my dissertation, and when I did, the university offered me a teaching position. I’ve been there ever since, until I finally moved here.” He shrugged. “The universities are full of recluses. It’s far less suspicious to be an eccentric professor than a solitary soldier.”

There was a pause, then Sam took a breath through his nose. “So…how solitary…”

He lay back on the bed, pulling Sam with him. He negotiated them into a comfortable position, with Sam resting on his chest, a long leg draped over one of his, while he ran a hand through the soft brown hair. “I am very particular about the men in my life, Sam.”

There came a soft snort blowing warm air on his chest. “Obviously not that particular.”

He held the man closer. “Very,” he argued gently. “While in the military, I immediately refused any offers of company, and eventually they stopped coming. In college, there were more than was probably prudent, but I never allowed things to continue beyond a few weeks with any of them, and I insisted on living alone in spite of the cost. In Kiev, there was Mikhail.”

“Mikhail,” Sam murmured.

“Meek-hah- _eel_ ,” he corrected in a soft voice. “He was a truly beautiful man, nearly so handsome as you are.” He let his hand list through Sam’s hair until he felt the man’s eyelashes flutter closed against his skin. “Mikhail was a good man. We were together two years, two very good years. But when it came time for me to return to the States, I asked him to go with me, and he asked me to stay with him, and neither of us would budge. I have written to him every few months since I’ve been back, just updating him. He married a woman, Edama, who does not mind that he isn’t interested in her body, and they are as happy as I suppose they can be like that. Mikhail was the only man I ever loved. But when the time came, and he asked me to stay, I suddenly knew I couldn’t. And he wasn’t surprised.” He smiled wryly. “He didn’t like that I was a western Catholic anyway.”

“Why couldn’t you stay?”

He licked his lips before responding. “For men like us, love is a dangerous thing over there. I had already had enough of people telling me how to live when I was in the military. Things aren’t always easy here, but you can believe in free will here. There, every word, every kiss can become a tragic mistake. Maybe in another life I could have stood against that. But it was easier to fall out of love than to stay to fight against a system that just isn’t right, and lose. So I said no. And he said no because he didn’t love me enough to leave his home. There are other excuses, but in the end, that was the reason.”

Sam sat up to lean on his elbow and look into the other man’s eyes. “What…what was Mikhail like? What made you love him?”

Castiel felt his heart breaking inside his chest, and it surprised him how quickly he had become so deeply committed to this young man in his arms, who he had noticed since he had moved in but had only actually known for a week. “No, Sam,” he said firmly.

Sam frowned. “What?”

One arm was wrapped around the man, and the other reached up so he could touch his cheek warmly. “No. I’m not letting you do that, Sam. Not with me.”

Realization mixed with fear on his face. “What…what do you think I’m doing?”

“You are not Mikhail. I’m not looking to replace Mikhail. And I’m certainly not looking to replicate him.”

The hazel eyes were dark with panic. “But…why? I already know what he did wrong. And you loved him. Just tell me what he did right.” He took a shallow breath, then lowered the eyes. “Please,” he murmured. “I can be-"

“Sam, no.”

A sob of defeat erupted from him. “Fuck you, Castiel. You can’t tell me you want me then not give me a chance. You can’t…I can’t figure you out! I can usually tell what it is a guy wants me to be, almost right away. Certainly after sex, I know. But not you. I can’t figure you out. Help me. If you don’t want me to leave, then tell me how to stay.”

“I don’t want you to figure me out.”

Sam shoved himself to sitting, letting the sheets pool into his lap. The image of the naked man, so vulnerable and desperate in spite of his physical strength, was breathtaking. But his face was stained red with humiliation and anger. “You don’t want me to…Dammit, Castiel! What is it that you want me to be? If I’m going to be stupid enough not to run away, then just make it easier on us both, and tell me! What was he? What did he do? How can I be what you want if you won’t help me figure out what that is?” He shook his head in defeat.

Castiel listened without interrupting. But he felt every word. He had been falling for this man all night long. And now every word was painful because it showed just how deep he would have to dive to save Sam from drowning.

"Every instinct is telling me to get the hell out now. But you're sitting there touching my skin and I know I'm not leaving till you're done with me. So if you want me to play, give me a role. Tell me what to do to make you want me. To make you want to keep me."

He shook his head. "Sam, I don't know exactly what those others did to you. I don't know what they wanted from you. But I want the real thing. I want the real you."

 _"No one wants that!"_  he shouted angrily. " _Dammit_ , Castiel, I don't even know what that _is_ anymore!"

"I want it, and we'll figure it out together."

Sam was shaking his head. Tears were cutting down his face, and he looked completely exhausted. "Please," he murmured. "Please tell me what I can do for you. You can't do what you did for me tonight and not let me...There has to be something I have that you want. Something he had, something that pulled you to him for two long years. Whatever it is that made you want him, I will find a way to be that too. I'm...I'm offering to play your game, Cas. I know I’m not enough, but I'll do whatever it takes. I should have walked out, and I didn’t. And it’s too late. I’m too tired to fight, and I’m too tired to pretend I don’t want you to want me.”

The incredible fatigue Castiel had blanketed over him through the night was destroying Sam's rational thought. It was a tried and proven method. Castiel had pulled more out of men with less, but Sam was tougher than most. He was finally cracking after ten hours and four orgasms, and constant, gentle touch. Castiel's hands, eyes and voice never failed to bring a confession eventually. He had enjoyed wringing it out of Sam one moan at a time.

It was simple enough. Sam felt inadequate, feared that Castiel had hooked him only to use him up and throw him back broken and drained, as others had obviously done. But the exhaustion had robbed Sam of any finesse he might have tried to incorporate in his attempts to learn how Castiel wanted him to behave, and he was resorting to telling the truth. He was lonely, confused and falling for a man he could not "figure out.”

Castiel could work with that.


	9. Time is on His Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deal is struck...

"I have a better idea, Sam Winchester," Castiel was saying. 

Sam's eyes narrowed and he watched through his brown hair suspiciously. 

"You want me to tell you how to make me love you."

He flinched. 

"You want to know what Mikhail did? He showed me the true Mikhail. I got the good, bad and ugly parts of him, and I loved all of it."

In spite of his tears and exhaustion, he laughed a bit. "You've seen the bad and ugly, Cas."

The man was smiling at him. "If this has been you at your worst? I'll take it over anyone else's best any day. And any night. Do you have any concept of how amazing you look and feel when you're giving me your fourth fucking orgasm in a night?"

Sam's breath caught in his throat. 

"You want to know what I want? I want more of that. I want that to be my Friday night every week of my life. And every Saturday. And then after church on Sunday. I want to take you as communion and make you the subject of every confession."

"Even I know that's blasphemy." But he said it with a voiceless breath. 

"Sam, I could tell you all weekend but you won't believe me. And you won't trust me. So let's just enjoy ourselves and each other for two days, and decide later what we are and what that means. I can't promise I won't wink at you in the hall, but if you want to be done with me after Sunday, then I'll respect that. I'm not a kid. I can handle that. But only if you give me a weekend to get you out of my system."

The idea sent a tingle up his spine. Two more days with this man, then a mutual goodbye. A few smirks in the hall once in a while, but no pressure or guilt. No games. 

"Eat your cake and leave it too."

A wicked smile came over Sam then. For the first time, maybe ever, he would be the one in control here. He would be the one deciding what Castiel got from him. He would be the one taking instead of being used up and tossed aside. This would not be a months-long drama-filled heartache. This would not be a filthy one night mistake, with him slamming another man up against a wall, just to feel powerful again after being drained and brought to begging by someone who was already forgetting about him. 

This could be...fun. 

He would deal with the emotional fallout on his own. Because he liked Castiel. Too much. But knowing up front that it was ending was different from waiting for someone he had fallen for to get sick of him, to realize Sam was not worth his time. Then at least he could recover in his own time, without the humiliation of being caught unaware. 

"Are we doing one of those no strings arrangements?" 

"If you like. Does that interest you? Does that seem safer somehow?"

Sam nodded. He watched the blue eyes carefully, looking for signs that he was being mocked. 

"Then that's what we will do. Clear your schedule. I'll go to Mass on Wednesday."

"No," Sam heard himself say. 

Castiel looked up, and it was the first time he had seen surprise in the blue eyes. "No what?"

"No. Go on Sunday. Take me with you."

"Are you Catholic?"

"No. But then I'm gay."

A slow grin passed over Castiel's lips. "You want me to take you to Mass."

"Yup." The idea was making him a bit giddy. "Yeah. Look, you want more than a weekend, am I understanding that right?"

"And here comes the law student finally. Yes. I would like this to last more than a weekend."

He felt a little lightheaded. It had to be the sex and the lack of sleep and the emotional upheaval that made him say what he said next. "Okay then. Consider this weekend your job interview."

Castiel's eyes were sparkling now in a way they had not except for the moment just before orgasm. It was distracting how hot the man was as he pounced on a challenge. "So let me get this straight."

"You heard me," Sam whispered, gaining a confidence he was entirely unfamiliar with. "I like you, Cas. And you've already wrecked me. Bad. And the idea of a weekend with you is really tempting. But I can't believe you're not going to bring me to my knees if I let it go further than that. You wanted the truth, the real me? There it is. I don't even fall in love anymore. I fall to my knees. I don't even remember what love feels like. I'm not capable of love anymore, and no one is ever going to love me. So you want the job? Want me to believe something I know in my heart isn't true? Earn it."

Castiel was moving toward him then, doing that amazing thing with his eyebrow and the way he licked his lips that made Sam's skin burn and his insides melt. When he spoke, it sent ripples of arousal through his whole being. "That? Sam, that." He was like a cat stalking him on the bed. His hand centered on Sam's chest and pushed him down so slowly that Sam's stomach had time to flip before he was on his back again. 

He held his breath. 

"That," Castiel murmured as he climbed on top of Sam, fully hard, "was the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me."

"Earn it?" Sam croaked. 

Castiel's calm snapped, and he was all over Sam in an instant. 

Sam lay back and gulped in breath as the man went to work. His eyes slipped closed. There was no defense; all his nerves were raw from overstimulation, and his muscles writhed under Castiel's attention. He had no ability to reciprocate or even to participate. His exhaustion was complete, his pleasure unbearable. 

When at last, Castiel entered him, when he pressed past tight rings of muscle to drive into the deepest part of him, Sam let loose a screaming moan that made Castiel's eyes go wild. Last time, he had been self-conscious, had worried so much about Castiel's pleasure that he had stifled his own. But after the hours of tireless work on Castiel's part, there was none of that holding him back now. Now, he rode every wave, felt every stroke hitting exactly right, filling him exactly right. Every slide of Castiel's long fingers, every thrust of his hips, he surrendered to completely. When he came this time, it was more of an eternity spent in slow waves of stinging pleasure than an explosion. It flowed through him as Castiel held his hair gently with his free hand, keeping his face visible for him to view. His shuddering body ripped an orgasm from Castiel, and if it weren't for the dreamlike doze that immediately came over him, he would have sworn the feeling of Castiel filling him had sent him into renewed convulsions. 

He was only vaguely aware of Castiel lifting himself and then a moment later, cleaning them both with a warm cloth. He felt a finger touch his lips gently, then felt a kiss at his forehead. But he could not open his eyes, or even take the man's hand. He was spent, utterly. 

A deep, incredible voice reached him through a dark fog, and it was the last thing he knew before sleep completely engulfed him. 

"Earn it. God, I love you already. You're broken and bruised and cut, and you're making me earn the right to heal you. You beautiful man. I don't know what they did to you. But I promise I will be the only man you've ever known who will deserve you."

And so Sam finally learned what it was Castiel needed.


	10. The Man Who Knew Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is figuring it all out.

The moment Sam was truly asleep, Castiel got to work. There was no coffee which could energize him like this feeling Sam had given him. It wasn't even the orgasm.

He had to admit that Sam felt incredibly good. He had wanted to pour himself into this man since the first time he had seen him in the building. The way his body felt around him was indescribable.

But it wasn't that, not really. It was the challenge.

It was how Sam could not keep from giving himself over completely. At first, he had tried to give _of_ himself, which was utterly and exasperatingly not the same thing. But something changed sometime in the night, and Castiel had been struck by how gratifying it was when Sam at last stopped trying to please him and gave in to what his own body was begging for.

Castiel had been lost from that moment. There had never been anything more intensely, painfully beautiful than Sam Winchester giving in to his own pleasure. He had not just seen it, but felt it, tasted it, heard it. That moment when Sam had been broken, he had let out such a cry of need and want and demand that if he had been standing, it would have brought Castiel to his knees. Sometime in the night, their dynamic had changed, Sam had changed, and Castiel had fallen in love with him.

Even as he tried to plead with Castiel later, tried to regain his familiar place below, where he thought he belonged, it had been a confusing, chaotic mess. Because now Sam knew that what he wanted, what his body screamed and starved for, what his heart craved, was attainable. Castiel had given him everything his flesh had asked for, everything his voice could never say, and he had done it with devotion and firm, respectful kindness.

It was safer to give than to receive, for a man like Sam who obviously had been taught he wanted too much. But Castiel would not accept anything but a completely sated lover. Mikhail had called him exhausting because of it, men in college had frankly bored him. But Sam. Here at last was a man who had always been desperate to please his lovers in every physical and emotional way, and had never left anything for himself, yet still harbored such immense need. It was irresistible to a man who had sought a sexual, intellectual and romantic challenge his whole life.

 _Earn it_.

Sam was organized. As much as his heart was a complete shredded tangle, the rest of him sought order. Castiel could be as outwardly ordered as he was inwardly disciplined. It was a muscle he had not flexed in a while, since he had seen no reason to. But it bothered him not one iota to form a more deliberate system of organization in his space for Sam's sake.

As he worked on putting his apartment in order, he considered that on a philosophical level. It could be that he was doing what he suspected Sam did, morphing into what he thought his lover wanted, changing himself to meet someone else's vision. But Castiel did not see it that way. It was making his lover more comfortable. Making space for him in his life. He would not be willing to throw out all his Nietzsche. But he was happy to put it all on one bookshelf.

That was the difference. Sam was willing to throw away pieces of himself. Castiel would simply rearrange himself to let Sam in. It might look the same to someone else, but Castiel knew his own limitations. He knew his own obsessions. And he knew this was not what would win Sam over. This was what would make Sam comfortable enough to be won over. There was a difference, a big one.

He would help Sam learn the difference. But before that could begin, he had to earn him.

The chess game continued in his head. Why had Sam wanted to go to Mass with him?

He set the kitchen to rights as he considered. It was good to have a task for his hands while his mind raced over this new puzzle. The prize for winning this game was another week with that beautiful man, and he would do it. Then he would do it again every week until he had proven himself.

Ah.

Castiel smiled as he went about his work.

"You want to know how I act in public. Not a bar. Not on a date. You want to know if I'm the same person in a church as I am in the bedroom. You want to know how I'll treat you in public."

Easy enough. Castiel was never disrespectful-not out loud anyway-in church, but he never bothered to hide who he was in any way. He was a believer in the Lord, and yet unapologetically loathe to abide hypocrites. Sam would see exactly what he had seen so far.

And he knew Sam liked what he had seen so far.


	11. Brother Dearest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at Sam's past...

Dean looked up from his copy of Motor Trend when the apartment flew open. His brother tore into the living area, and collapsed against the door, then slid to the floor against it. Dean put his magazine down slowly. “Morning, little bro. Are we running or fighting?”

Sam’s eyes were wild when they finally found his brother’s. “What?” he panted.

“Dude,” Dean cried out. He stood and approached the madman on the floor. “Cas’s apartment is three feet away! How are you out of breath?”

“I ran down the stairs first. And back up. A few times.”

“What? Why?”

“I needed to.”

Dean stared at him as he crouched down next to him. “Because…?”

Sam shrugged and threw his hands up. “Don’t you ever just need to?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“Whatever.”

“Sam? What the hell is wrong with you? Do I need to go over there and kick that guy’s ass?”

The man’s moaning sigh would have been enough to make Dean gag, if he hadn’t been so worried about him. “God, please don’t. Dean, I’m going to be really gay for a minute.”

“You weren’t before?”

“Brace yourself.”

Dean closed his eyes tightly in a wince. “Go.”

“I just had the best sex of my entire life. Six times.”

His eyes snapped back open. “What the fuck?”

“Dinner, back to his place. Sex. So much sex.”

“I don’t think I-“

“Shut up,” Sam barked. “You’re going to hear it. Who the fuck else do I have to tell? And you give me every disgusting detail of your weekends. So shut up.”

Dean opened his mouth, but closed it again. He really couldn’t argue with that. Besides, finding out his brother was slumped on the apartment floor because of something good for once was probably worth any details he had to hear.

“Right. So yes. So much sex. And every ounce of it for me. The guy is a freaking martyr.”

He laughed. “Wow, Sammy. You going to know what to do with a guy who treats you well?”

“Fuck no. Why do you think I’m here right now?”

At last, Dean frowned. “Wait. Why are you here right now?”

“Shower. Panic. I need a shower. Also I panicked.”

“What? Why?” he demanded for the second time in two minutes.

“Did I mention six times?” he shrieked. “It was five, then I passed out and when I woke up he’d cooked breakfast, and then it was six times, and for god’s sake, Dean, he’s a complete machine!” He stopped. “What the hell time is it?”

“It’s almost noon.”

“It’s only noon? Saturday?”

Dean’s eyes grew wide then. “Yeah, man. It’s Saturday. What the fuck is this guy feeding you?”

“Have you ever had sex six times in twelve hours?” he shouted.

“Uh. No. That actually kind of scares me a little.”

Sam licked his lips, then bit into the lower one and dropped his head back against the door with a thud. His eyes were disturbingly glassy. “Jesus Christ. The man got me off so many times it frightens my horndog big brother.”

“And apparently makes you a complete moron.”

“Dean, I think I like him.” 

“I would hope so! By the time I get some chick off six times, she sure as hell better like me!”

Sam went silent then, and there was a tiny whimper from the enormous man that made Dean cringe. 

“Sammy,” he said in a warning voice. “Sammy, stop.”

“It’s too much.”

“Well, yeah! You’re probably hella dehydrated!”

“Not that!”

Dean rubbed at his eyes. Sam was going to be the death of him. There was no doubt in his mind that he was headed for an early grave, and it was going to be because he loved his brother. “I know that’s not what you meant. Sammy, you gotta stop. Before you hyperventilate and try to bolt out of this thing with the only guy in years who has given a damn about what you’re getting out of a relationship, would you slow down and breathe?”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can.” He grabbed Sam’s arm and yanked him to his feet. “Look. You stink like sex. And panic. Go shower, then get back in here and sit. I got something to say to you, and I’m not doing it while you have our neighbor all over you.”

Sam made a face, but he stumbled toward the bathroom and closed the door behind him. A moment later, Dean could hear the water running.

He leapt at the apartment door and stalked across the hall to bang on an identical one. When it opened, he found the man inside looking no worse for wear, unlike his wrecked little brother. Something about that bothered him. 

“Dean?”

“Castiel,” he said, pushing his way into the apartment. He was unsurprised to find that it was in perfect, impeccable organized condition. It seemed Castiel was just as controlling of his environment as he was of Dean’s little brother. “Okay, you son of a bitch.”

It made him livid when he saw the amusement on Castiel’s face. Dean’s ability to intimidate Sam’s boyfriends was absolute. Even that massive brute Tyrus had flinched under Dean’s steady gaze. Who did this man think he was? “May I help you, Dean?” he said calmly.

“Yeah. You can stop messing with my brother’s head.”

Dark brows lifted with interest. “Have I been messing with your brother’s head?”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Haven’t you?” He could not remember the last time he was knocked off balance. 

Castiel smiled pleasantly. “If by that you mean accommodating every desire and need I can anticipate, guess or get him to admit to, then yes. I’ve been messing with your brother’s head.”

Green eyes flared with anger, then narrowed. “What?” he said finally.

His neighbor sighed. “Let’s try again, shall we? Dean, good to see you. Would you like to come in? I’m resting while I wait for Sam to recover from his panic attack and decide if he would like to return for the remainder of the weekend.”

“I’m, uh…I wanted a, uh…I just wanted to ask if…”

“If you should be kicking my ass.”

Dean bit his lip. “He’s just panicking because you weren’t an asshole, isn’t he?”

“It’s a new experience for him.”

He nodded slowly, then took a deep breath. “Cas…I think you’re a good guy.”

“Clearly.”

To his utter shock, he felt his face warm in a flush. “You can’t blame me for wanting to be sure about you. The kid’s a mess.”

“He isn’t a kid, Dean.”

His face burned brighter. “You don’t know him well yet, okay? He’s not just some guy. He’s…There’s more to him than…Look, he deserves better than…”

Castiel’s blue eyes softened for the first time. “Dean, I agree.”

He stared suspiciously. Since he wasn’t even sure what it was he was trying to say, it was hard to believe Castiel could possibly agree with him. “You do.”

“Sam isn’t being coerced in this…whatever this is. He is finding it difficult to process my intentions, because there have evidently been others in the past who have been too stupid to see his worth. The fact that he chose those idiots can’t be blamed on him, but on how they manipulated his insecurities. Dean, Sam is not a child. But he is an open heart. I suspect he’s always been that way.”

Dean nodded. His throat and chest were growing tight as he heard this man vocalize the things he had always tried to put into words. This man, this weird, sort of creepy, obviously intelligent man who had known Sam for just days, knew him better than any lover Sam had ever had.

“He’s an open heart,” Castiel said again. “He pretends to be able to close it off, but he can’t. That just isn’t how he works. He is overwhelmed easily and he cannot help but jump in with both feet. He tries so hard to hold himself back. He tries to back away, but his heart makes him run in blindly. It’s an entirely wicked person who can take advantage of that. If you think I’m a complete and utter asshole, then you’re welcome to try to kick my ass. But I think you know I’m not. At least, not when it comes to this. I’ve known your brother just a few days, and I’m already willing to put everything I have into making him happy. It’s rare that a man can even catch my eye. But this particular man? I do hope he chooses to come back for the remainder of the weekend, because I plan to make him want to stay for every weekend after.”

Dean swallowed through his tight throat and nodded. “If you’re full of shit, I’m coming back to end you.”

Castiel smiled. “That could be fun,” he said smugly. “But unnecessary. You have my word that your brother will never be hurt if he chooses me. That is, he’ll never be hurt by choosing me. If he doesn’t…I will be grateful for the time he gave me this weekend, and will always be across the hall if he changes his mind. He is the challenge I’ve always wanted.”

“Challenge?”

“Relax, Dean. By challenge, I mean that he deserves far more than what most can give him. As for what I need? I need someone who expects more from me than most can offer. Sam deserves someone who will never stop working to make him happy. My current goal is to increase his tolerance for good in his life, to make him so used to being treated well that he starts to demand more.”

Dean smiled softly, and shook his head. “Jesus, man,” he sighed. “If you can do that? Make him stick up for himself? You’ll be pulling off something I’ve never been able to do. And…I’d be pretty damn grateful for it.”

“Then it’s settled. You’ll wait to try to kick my ass until your brother has decided he’s far too good for me. And until then, I’ll try my best to earn him.”

They shook on this deal, and Dean laughed. “You’re nothing like the other guys he’s been with.”

“I’m far smarter than any of them,” Castiel agreed.

“I’m sorry I assumed you were, you know. Sam only picks assholes. I mean, if he had a dating profile, it would say ‘Ginormous, incredibly sasstastic, and prefers men that big brother will want to kill.’ So you can’t blame me for assuming you were the next douchebag in his lineup.”

“No offense taken, Dean. How’s his panic attack going?”

He stepped back into the hall quickly. “Right. I’ll go…check on that.”

“Thanks.”

Dean arrived back in the apartment just in time to hear the water shut off again. He smiled to himself, running the conversation with Castiel over in his head twice while Sam dressed, to see if he had missed something vital. Dean had played poker his whole life, and he was damn good at it. This Castiel guy might be strange, but he wasn’t an asshole, and he wasn’t bluffing. Dean was a bit concerned he might turn out to be an obsessed stalker, but he would deal with that if the time came. Until then, he liked the idea that he knew Sam deserved a guy willing to work for him.

When the door opened, Sam was freshly clean and dressed, and he looked better than Dean had seen him look in years. His large paw went up to stop Dean’s words. “I know what you’re going to say,” he began.

“I don’t think you do.”

Sam sighed and sat on the couch. He was wearing a thin sweater over a tee shirt now, and comfortable jeans had replaced the slacks from the night before. His hair was under control, and there was an easy smile on his face. It was amazing what a shower and clean clothes could fix. “Of course I do. You’re going to tell me that this is textbook Sam, that I’m reacting with my dick and my heart instead of my head, that I’m-“

“Sam stop. That’s not what I’m…Look. I’m the last one to be giving advice about…okay, about anything. I’m a dropout with six bucks to my name most days. But you gotta listen, okay? What John said to you all those years ago…”

His brother’s lips parted in shock. “Dean…you said you’d never bring that up again.” He shook his head. “I can’t…Look, I can’t deal with that right now. I’m exhausted, and because of a good thing for once. Don’t screw that up by bringing up Dad. Jesus, Dean.”

He steeled his heart against the look of hurt and humiliation on his kid brother’s face. “You never told me what he said to you, Sam. You never told me, and I never asked. You ever wonder why I never asked you what he said?”

There was a spark of anger mixed with disbelief in the hazel eyes now. Those eyes were reflecting the brown in the sweater, and Dean could not get over how much like a wounded animal he looked. “You heard it. You heard us talking.”

Dean shrugged guiltily in confirmation.

“Oh my god, Dean. Why the hell are you telling me this? That was like eight years ago. Ten, maybe! I was a freshman in high school. Jesus, Dean, you heard us? Why did you pretend?”

“What, and make you more self-conscious knowing I’d heard? Sam, my point-“

Sam stood on shaky legs. “No. No, I don’t want to hear what your point is. I’ve heard enough. You let me go all this time thinking…You know what? There’s a guy across the hall waiting for me because he’s smart enough to know what kind of trash I am. I’d rather be with him, let him use me, than sit with family trying to protect me from what I am. I’ve had enough of lies, Dean. I know what I am. Dad told me all those years ago. I tried for years to be better than he thought I was, better than Gordon and all the others said I was. But it’s better like this, giving in to what I am. You’re the one who’s been hurting me all this time, Dean. You’re the one who tries to keep me believing I’m something I’m not. Don’t you know how much more that hurts? I’m better off with someone who treats me like the trash I am than in here with a brother who pretends he doesn’t know.”

“Sam, wait!”

But the larger man was fleeing the apartment. Grabbing hold of his arm was a mistake; he knew it as soon as he had done it, but Sam’s reflexes won out. The brutal crash of Sam’s fist into his nose sent him sprawling onto the floor in his own blood. Sam glowered above him like a furious, panting tower for several seconds, then stepped out and slammed the door behind him. 

Dean’s vision was blurred, and he could feel the blood coming out in a flow, but the tears were not due to the physical pain. When they streamed down his face and mixed with the blood, it was because he had hurt his brother, not because his brother had hurt him. He wanted to pick himself up off the floor, but he was shaking so badly, he couldn’t do it. What was the point anyway? The only person he had ever given a damn about had broken his nose and stormed out in favor of someone he thought was using him. 

Finally, he pulled himself to his knees and grabbed at some tissues in his reach. The carpet was already a wreck, but he could at least catch some of the blood. Eventually, he went to the bathroom, in a daze, and cleaned up his face. He stared into the mirror at the damage, but what he saw was his father’s face. Sam was right. It had been ten years since Dean had taken custody of his younger brother. Ten years since the last time he had seen his father, except twice in a lawyer’s office to do paperwork. Ten years since a very drunk John Winchester had disowned his younger son. 

It was hard to say if John would have reacted the same way before the fire, before the liquor and the fights at bars and the drunk tanks. Dean had long suspected that John had simply taken out his own self-loathing on an easy target, a very young, very insecure son who sought his approval like it meant everything in the world to him. 

Dean had awoken to hear the crash of the beer bottle against the wall. It was his ritual whenever he heard his father arrive back home from drinking and fighting to count the months until his eighteenth birthday, then the weeks, and on that particular night, he was down to mere days. That was how he remembered exactly when it was. It was the last of a hundred times he had done that countdown. Seventeen days. That was all it was. Seventeen days. His bags were packed already. He had two bags. It was all he needed. Two bags, and the open road. There was no doubt he could earn most of what he needed, and steal the rest. Bobby had promised him a job if he could get out that way, and the old man wouldn’t ask too many questions. 

Then he heard another crash, and it wasn’t a beer bottle this time. In those seventeen seconds that he had spent counting, getting himself in the right state of mind to go help his father to bed, his little brother had emerged from his own bedroom and had stepped right into John’s wrath.

The shouting that had ensued was the theme of many of Dean’s nightmares even so many years later. He could remember thinking if Sam would just shut up, if he would just put his head down and say yes sir, like Dean did, it would all be over, and they could go back to sleep. He thought of that every time he learned that Sam had submitted to a creep in an abusive relationship, thought of the time he had wished that Sam weren’t so defiant, that he would just give in. It was like a stab in the temple every time, as if he had wished the abuse on his brother, as if he had prayed for his brother to say yes sir to these sons of bitches in his life. 

It was probably the last time Sam had actually stood up for himself, until he had thrown his fist into Dean’s face minutes before, and Dean had silently begged him to roll over and submit instead. It was unforgivable, even if Sam had never heard him say it.

Dean had been the good kid, seeking to please or at least pacify their father at every opportunity. At school, the teachers might have thought of Sam as the smart one, but Dean knew enough to keep his head down at home. Sam was the idiot who always fought, who called John out for his failings. Dean had saved the kid’s ass a thousand times before he even hit puberty, by stepping in and getting between them when John was drunk and angry, and Sam wouldn’t shut up. Dean was worried that John would truly hurt Sam one day, not just throw him into the wall or shove him out of his way, but really, permanently hurt him. He had learned how to be heard himself, when all he wanted was for the shouting to stop. He had learned to force his will over the two strongest males he knew, when what he would have preferred was to just let everyone have their way if it made them stop arguing. Had Sam been physically bigger, he might have just stepped back and let the two of them wail on one another, just out of sheer exhaustion. But Sam was all mouth and brain, and the two were entirely unconnected. Dean couldn’t let him fend for himself.

But he had that night. 

He had asked himself a thousand times why he had not bolted out of bed and hurried between them like he had so many nights before. Maybe it was the simple fatigue of it all. Maybe he had not been entirely awake. Maybe he was angry that Sam was picking yet another fight with their inebriated father, knowing the consequences. Maybe he just didn’t have the energy to do it one last time. Whatever it was, he had listened, tears rolling down his cheeks, instead of getting up, and Sam had spent the next ten years thinking his brother had slept through the worst night of his life.

***

Sam’s eyes flashed with anger at the sight of his father. It disgusted him. John knew it disgusted him. It was why he hated contact with his younger son, because he knew that, unlike Dean, Sam saw the real him. Tonight was no different. Sam shook his head as he went for the dustpan. 

John’s stumble was accidental. When they went crashing to the ground together, it was not really John’s fault so much as gravity’s. Even back then, Sam had known that. It still made him angry. “Jesus fucking Christ, Dad!” he had shouted. “Get up!”

The large man untangled himself from his son to sit upright. “Don’t you curse at me, kid.” He grabbed Sam’s shoulder to brace himself as he stood. 

Sam glowered at the glass all over the floor, and wondered if he or John had been cut when they fell. The bottle’s crash had been John’s fault, because he had thrown it. “God, Dad. You were a fucking Marine! Why can’t you act like it?”

If Dean had heard that, he would have sucked in his breath through his teeth and leapt between the two of them without blinking. Sam hated the way Dean always hurried to smooth things over, tried to be the peacemaker between them. If the bottle had woken Dean up instead, it would be cleaned up by now, and he would be leading John to bed without incident. But Sam just couldn’t keep quiet, and Dean was not there to jump between them, or to apologize for him. 

John was on him in a second, shoving him up against the wall. Sam glared stubbornly into the man’s eyes, which only made him angrier. “I was a fucking Marine, and you’re going to show me some fucking respect!” he hissed in a slur. 

Unlike Dean, Sam did not remember a time when John did not slur. He barely noticed it any more than he did the smell of alcohol on him. “What the hell is there to respect? When did you ever do anything I could respect?”

To Sam’s surprise, a cold calm came over John then. He took a step back, but Sam did not dare move away from the wall. For the first time, he wondered where Dean was, how he could possibly be sleeping through all of this. Sam had been afraid of their father his whole life, but the look in John’s eyes now was the most terrifying thing he had ever seen. “You know, Sammy, you killed my wife.”

The flinch was violent. He could barely breathe, and for just a moment, he felt sick to his stomach. “What? What are you talking about?”

“That fire ate her up, made her scream, suffocated her, trapped her. It was supposed to be you that died that night. But she got to your crib, and then the beam fell, pinned her, and she handed you to me. I gave you to Dean and told him to run. I tried to pull her out, tried until she was past dead and the firefighters dragged me out. If she hadn’t gone in there after you, she and Dean and I would have run down the stairs together. You killed my wife, Sammy. She died when it should have been you. So don’t speak to me in that tone like you think you deserve something. Don’t talk to me ever again about earning respect when you haven’t even earned the right to be alive.”

Sam’s breath came too shallowly, and he slumped to the floor, broken. “Dad,” he breathed.

“I had a beautiful wife, Sammy,” the cold voice continued mercilessly. “A great son. Dean. I didn’t need two. If you had died in that fire, I’d have my wife and my son, and I’d be that man I used to be. I’d have the family I’m supposed to have, instead of a cock-sucking, filthy bit of trash under my feet.”

This time, Sam breathed in and found he couldn’t breathe out at all. He had never officially come out to John. He was not stupid, and anyway, Dean had asked him to wait until after high school. But there it was.

“Instead of my wife, I’ve got a son who gets on his knees for other men, because that’s where he belongs.”

And then came the worst of it. The part that made Sam want the world to end and swallow him into a great dark pit. 

“You know,” the man said thoughtfully, “if it were Dean, I don’t think it would matter so much. But it isn’t Dean, is it? You keep doing what you’re doing, Sammy. God knows you better get good at it. Nobody’s ever going to love you if you’re not. And I’m done with you. Mary had a good heart, but she made the wrong choice, and I’m done paying for it. Be gone by the time I wake up tomorrow.” With that, he had stumbled toward his bedroom, but he stopped before closing the door. Without looking over his shoulder, he called back, “Don’t think I won’t remember in the morning. I ain’t that drunk.”

***


	12. Sam Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel continues the healing process, using what he knows about Sam and his brother.

Castiel’s eyes widened a bit at the sight of him. There was blood on his sweater. Of all the things he had expected, that was not one of them. “Sam?”

“Cas, I hit my brother. I think I broke his nose.”

He blinked, then opened the door wider. “Okay. Come on in. Does he need to go to the hospital or something?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I just hit him. I don’t even know why. He grabbed my arm, and I just…I just hit him.”

Castiel took his hands and looked at the knuckles on the right one. "Sam, you're bleeding too. Want me to go check on Dean or get you cleaned up?"

Sam looked conflicted. Finally, he shook his head. "No. He's had that coming for ten years. I just didn't know it till now. Just...I'm going to wash my hands. He's fine."

"You may have broken his nose, Sam."

"I hope I did," he snapped. But Castiel could already see the anger fading and guilt settling in.

"Okay. Go through here to wash up."

Sam swallowed with difficulty, then tried to smile. "God, it's like a whole different apartment," he muttered as he walked away.

He watched him go, then walked across the hall to knock on the door.

After a moment, a man with a washcloth over his face answered. "Cas?" he growled.

"You need help?"

"Yeah. I need you to watch that kid for me. He's out of his gourd right now."

"I gathered. You're all right then?"

Dean sighed through his mouth. "All the fights I've been in, I never got my nose broke. I'm sure it's fine now. Kid hits like a fucking sledge hammer though."

"May I know why he hit you?"

There was a pause. "Because he didn't know to do it ten years ago. And he can't hit the guy that he really wants to hit."

Castiel's eyes narrowed, and he did some quick calculating in his head. "Your father."

Dean nodded once.

"I'll take care of him. Knock if you need something."

"This ain't nothing a fifth of whiskey can't fix."

Castiel smiled. "Maybe two fifths."

"Maybe."

When he returned to his own space, Sam was still running water in the bathroom. He knocked gently. "Sam?"

The water turned off, and the door opened. "He okay?" he murmured miserably.

"Seems to be. He's going to drink it off."

"Of course he is. Because that's what we do. First rule of being a Winchester. We do what we do and we don't talk about it. Ever. Second rule? Driver picks the music; shotgun shuts his cakehole. Third and most important? Nothing a fifth of whiskey can't fix."

It was the saddest list of house rules he had ever heard. "What couldn't you talk about?" he asked, as he lead Sam to his couch and looked at his hand.

Sam snorted. "Anything. Keep everything shoved down inside, and let it out in quick bursts of violence and alcoholism. It's my entire inheritance." He sighed. "But that's not all that meant. We stole a lot when we were kids. Probably not what a good Catholic wants to hear."

It was amusing that just hours after awakening from a sex coma induced by Castiel, Sam could consider him a good Catholic. "Go on, my son," he said dryly.

This time, he gave a real laugh. "When we were kids, my dad...God, I can't even believe I'm telling you this."

"Sam, I've seen you in the throes of orgasm. Nothing you can tell me will ever change the fact that you are the most beautiful thing on the planet."

His bluntness made Sam whimper. He closed his eyes. "I want to trust you, Castiel. So please don't lie to me like that. You don't have to say things-"

"Which are true? Yes. I do. I have to say things which are true if I ever want you to trust me."

Tears gleamed in his eyes, but his hair fell to hide them. "When we were kids," he began again, very slowly, "my dad taught us some things. How to pick locks. Pick pockets. By the time Dean was sixteen, Dad had him hustling pool. We stole jewelry. To this day, I can't see a nice watch or necklace without thinking of exactly how I could get it, and exactly how much I could get for it. We were poor trash, but we lived okay for all that. It's...it's amazing the groceries you can buy after pawning just one hot tennis bracelet. Or how much liquor and beer a night of pool can earn you."

"Okay, Oliver. So why are you beating in the face of the Artful Dodger now?"

Sam blinked at him. "Did...did you just compare me to Oliver Twist?"

"I may have."

"That's...so..."

"Accurate?"

He made a face, as though he could not determine how he felt about that. "Well, I have daydreamed about Dean being sent to Australia," he said with a smile finally.

Castiel burst into laughter. He loved this man. Every moment he spent with him, he gathered more evidence that he was the one Castiel had sought.

"Why did I hit him? It's a long story."

"I have nothing but time, and nowhere I'd rather be."

It was obvious that Sam had not heard things like this before. Even as he took on an expression of gratitude, a flush betrayed his discomfort.

Castiel took his hand again, and pressed his lips to the knuckles delicately, then leaned back in the couch to show that he was getting comfortable to listen.

It took a few moments for Sam to begin, and he stopped several times. But eventually, the story came out. By the end, Castiel was holding him, his head in his lap, his long legs in an arc over the opposite arm of the couch. The eyes were closed, tears flowed freely, and Sam was the perfect portrait of exhaustion.

Without opening his eyes, he smiled pitifully, humorlessly. "So there you are. You really don't have to say things like...like what you said. Not to me. Because I learned the truth when I was thirteen. I don't need lies, Castiel. That's what my brother does; he lies, all the time. I don't need that. I guess some guys would, but I don't. I know the truth. I accepted it a long time ago. Now it's just...it's enough to be able to touch someone. To be allowed to make someone else feel good. That's all I need anymore. I'm not stupid, Castiel. I know what I'm good for. I know what I'm good at. So you don't have to pretend anymore. I'm sick of Dean pretending. I'm sick of pretending for Dean."

The professor's heart was pounding. Hearing John Winchester's words, memorized by Sam after years spent repeating them to himself, had snapped something inside Castiel. He wanted to find this man, find every man who had ever hurt Sam, and he wanted to hurt them. He wanted to make them beg Sam's forgiveness and tell him the truth, that he was so good and so beautiful that they felt inadequate around him, and so they punished him for their insecurities. He wanted them to cry like Sam had cried. He wished he at least knew what John looked like so he could imagine making him weep for Sam's forgiveness and break when it was denied. He even wanted to hold John's head down till his chin was against his chest in a gesture of shame, and press him down on his knees until he had apologized to Dean for a lifetime of trying to repair the damage his father had done to his brother. Then he might snap his neck altogether.

That would perhaps require him to actually go to confession.

But he was disciplined. He carded his fingers through hair wet with the stream of tears and did not allow a hint of his blood rage into his voice. "Sam, why do you believe something your father said while unstable and intoxicated, instead of what your brother tells you while healthy and sober?"

"Because drunk, fucked up people don't bother lying, and Dean does."

It seemed that Sam had thought this through from every angle. It would take a long time to dismantle the arguments built on top of justifications of lies.

"Please could you at least consider that it is an opinion Dean and I do not agree with?"

"You're wrong. And Dean is lying. It's really not complicated. Cas, I'm not a child anymore. I know how the world works, how relationships work. A guy is valued as much and for as long as he is useful. As long as he still feels good and doesn't ask for too much. Then there's that moment when the equilibrium tips, when he's suddenly not worth it anymore. I just prefer to go into a relationship knowing my role, knowing what someone wants me to be, to put the tipping point off for as long as I can. You and me, Cas? We haven't ever had the equilibrium to begin with. I'm already too much."

"You're not too much. You're the only one who has ever been enough."

Sam opened his eyes finally, and stared up at him. The words had been spoken with such intensity that the voice seemed to shock him all the way to his bones. "Fuck, Castiel. The guy after you is going to get such a broken version of me. I'm never going to make it back to whole after you."

 _After_. Castiel didn't want there to be an after him. He wanted to be the last man who got to hold Sam. "You will never have to know what after me is like, Sam. Not if you don't want to."

"For the next one?" he sobbed. "I'm going back to not talking. To just letting him talk and letting him tell me what to be. To pretending not to be fucked up. This talking thing hurts."

Castiel sighed. "I want you to forgive your brother. If you want to know what I want, that's it. Because I don't think he really meant to hurt you, and I think you're already sorry you hit him. I think being angry with Dean is the last thing you need."

Sam's eyes were closed. He reminded Castiel of an addict going through stages of withdrawal, as if he were sweating out the last of the poison and was entirely beyond exhaustion.

"Sam?"

"I'm not angry with him. I'm so humiliated I want to throw up. Not angry. Just so tired of...Dean is the only person in my life who has ever acted like I was better than trash. You can't understand what it's like to know that all this time, he knew what Dad thought of me. I mean, of course he knew. He'd have to be blind not to. But he actually heard him say that I killed his mother, that Dad wished I had died instead, the way I was supposed to. He lay there and listened to the man tell me all I could ever hope for was to get good enough at sucking men off that they wanted to keep me. How can I ever look Dean in the eyes knowing he heard that?"

He did not respond, because there was nothing he could say which Sam would hear right then. So instead, he held him and let him sob into his arms for nearly three quarters of an hour until he fell asleep. He spent another half hour just watching him sleep in peace. Then he lifted his head to place it gently on a couch cushion, and stood. He smiled down at his new lover. “We’ll fix you, Sam. In the meantime, I love what you are, even if what you are is broken.” He kissed the top of the man’s head and smoothed his hair away from his face.

Castiel checked on Dean once more while Sam slept. This time, when Dean saw who it was, he simply left the door open and walked back in to sit down. On the coffee table in front of him was an open bottle of prescription painkillers and a mostly empty handle of whiskey. Dean looked down, then snatched the medicine bottle up to close it and drop it into the pocket of the hoodie he wore. But Castiel had managed to read its label in the split second before it disappeared. He nodded at the alcohol. “Looks like you’re recovering nicely.”

“I’m fine. Sam?”

“He’s asleep on my couch. He isn’t ready to say it, but he’s sorry he hit you. He’s embarrassed about the situation.”

Dean scowled and lifted the handle directly to his mouth without bothering with the tumbler in front of him. “He ain’t the only one. He told you? About what John said?”

“Yes.”

“Damn. I’d put money down that he’s never told another human about that. Not even me.”

“Apparently he didn’t have to tell you.”

He finished off the handle and wiped at his lips with the back of his hand. Then he sighed and sat back against the couch. His eyes were cloudy. “No,” he answered quietly. “I been hearing that noise in the back of my head since I was eighteen years old. Like an infomercial you ain't really watching, but it seeps into your brain anyway, you know? It’s always playing in my head if you dig in deep enough.”

“Dean, I was under the impression opioid analgesic, taken it in combination with alcohol, especially in large amounts, can lead to adverse effects. Like death.”

The green eyes stared at him for a moment, then snorted with a bitter humor. “Dr. Novak, aren’t you glad you got to know the Winchester boys? Shit, you can take us out and clean us up, but we’re still the same poor trash from that same old neighborhood. Sammy’s right. He went to fucking Stanford, did you know that? Did we tell you that? Fucking Stanford.”

“Good school.”

“Damn good school! Then the world fucked him over just one more time, in case he was starting to feel like a human, and a guy he probably would have stayed his life with burned like toast in their apartment. Jess. You never saw a guy more determined to roll over and die than my brother. I brought him here, let him sleep for four weeks straight. I don’t think either of us thought he’d get out of bed. Guess I just wanted him here when he died. And then he didn’t. Not most of him anyway. One Friday he just walked out of the bedroom showered and in a suit, and poured himself some cereal. He went out and came back that afternoon with a job. He lay back down and didn’t get up again until Monday morning. For weeks, it went like that. He’d get up, go to work, smile and do his job, then he’d come home and get in bed and not get up till it was time to do it again the next morning. Weeks, months. God, I missed my brother.”

Castiel took the empty glass bottle and the tumbler, and headed into the kitchen to dispose of both. He brought back an ice pack he found in the freezer and handed it to Dean. Then he sat and listened.

Dean smirked in thanks. He placed the ice pack under his left eye, which had taken the brunt of Sam’s punch. “It was like living with this stupidly responsible, practical zombie. Months. Then one night, he didn’t come home from work. I waited up all night, called his cell, figured I’d lost him. He came in around six to get ready for work, and I busted into tears, thinking thank god he’s not dead.”

He nodded quietly to let Dean know he was still listening.

“Tyrus. That was the asshole he was with that night. Fucking Tyrus. Asshole.” Dean drifted off and stared at the table, at nothing. The ice pack lowered to his jaw, though Castiel doubted it was needed there.

“Dean, may I know the dosage of your painkillers? And how many you took today?”

Dean rifled through his pocket and tossed the bottle at Castiel. “Two. They’re hard to get. Can’t waste them.”

He nodded, then spoke up. “Tyrus,” he reminded him, putting the bottle into his own pocket.

“God, what an asshole. He was an ambulance chaser that lost his license, so he was working as a bartender at some sleazy joint near the bowling alley. One of the jerks he works with talked him into going there to have a drink after work, and next thing I know he’s coming back at fucking six in the morning looking like he had killed Jess himself. So fucking guilty, just because he got lonely. And that Tyrus bastard ate it up. Could have killed him. Sam wouldn’t let me.”

“I imagine he didn’t.”

“Kid broke my fucking face for trying to tell him he’s not what John said he was. But Tyrus, no. He got away with breaking his fucking heart and then calling him every time he got bored, to do it again. And Ephraim. Talk to me one day about Ephraim. I almost lost my brother completely to that sadistic creep.”

“It can’t be easy for you to watch.”

“Fucking understatement.” Dean was staring at the wall now. His eyes were glazed and he was swaying very slightly even while he was leaning back against the couch. “Then that guy…I don’t remember his name…Guy or something…”

“Dean, I’m going to check on Sam and I’ll be back. All right?”

“Check on Sam. You knew us, what, ten days? Fucking hell, Cas. Why the fuck would you want to get involved in this shit? We’re Winchesters, you moron. We ain’t worth it.”

“That isn’t what I hear.”

Dean blinked hard, then looked at him through his fog. “Who? Who said?”

“Dean, how much of that whiskey did you drink today?”

“I finished it.” Then he blinked again, and glared at Castiel. “Who’s talking about us then?”

He nodded. “I guess you’re unlikely to remember much of this anyway, aren’t you?” he sighed. Then he shrugged. “Dean, I’m an Angel of the Lord. At least, that used to be what I am. Hard to say anymore. And you and your brother are not at all what you are meant to be.”

“You’re telling me! He went to Stanford to be a goddamn lawyer.”

Castiel put his hand to the feverish skin on the back of Dean’s neck. He allowed some of his fading Grace to wash over the man, neutralizing the toxins in his system, and allowing him to sleep clean of intoxicants, likely for the first time in years. He caught the man as he slumped, and lay him carefully on the couch. Then he shook his head at him. “Righteous Man, indeed.” He took a deep breath and stood straighter. “Sam will never be able to withstand Lucifer in his current state. It is the only thing that I can do, with so little Grace remaining. I’m just trying to make him strong enough to say no. But you will need to do the same. I have given everything to get you two back on track.”

He lay a small blanket over Dean’s lap and smiled fondly at him. “The things Azazel set in motion, the things he did differently in this timeline, this world, changed you two so drastically that I would never be able to understand you if I didn’t know what you could be, what you’ve been for other worlds. The Castiel of this timeline is still a warrior for Heaven. He could never understand that the Righteous Man had been given over to alcoholism and addiction to painkiller, who spent his days under cars and his nights worrying incessantly about his brother. This world’s Castiel has no reason to believe you’ll be the ones to avert the Apocalypse, nor even that it should be averted at all. In my world, Dean, you were a soldier, a leader. You commanded Marines. Your brother was a hacker, and when he learned about supernatural elements from a demon named Ruby, he gave in to the call of demon blood, did unspeakable things. In the last world we visited, you two were hunters, and _that_ Castiel…”

He licked his lips carefully.

 “That Castiel,” he continued after a pause, “was someone I felt proud to be. He made a number of mistakes, bad ones, but he never lost faith, and he never stopped trying. He never read _Oliver Twist_ , I imagine, but then I wouldn't have either if I had not lived so many lifetimes among humans. It shocked me, though, that he wasn’t in love with Sam the way I have always been, the way every other Castiel who gets to know him is. But they were friends, good friends, brothers in arms, just as you and I have always been. I thought I had seen every version of myself, every version of Sam, every one of you. But that world was so different. Breaking into that world was more difficult than any I had entered before, and yet in the end, I just let it be. Observed that Angel and his hunter friends, and decided not to interfere. That world was…I think maybe that world was the way it was supposed to be. Messed up. Bloody. But protected by the Winchesters and their Fallen Angel.”

He looked down at his wayward friend, then closed his eyes. “It hurts to think that there is a world out there where I don’t love your brother with all my heart. Where I wouldn’t know how to bring him pleasure in a thousand ways. Where he feels unloved. But you should know there are worlds out there where John isn’t what he is here. That he might have been hard to live with, and hard to love, but he was a hero to you and Sam. You didn’t see eye to eye but you always looked up to him. I never got to meet John, but I know you respected him, in most worlds. There are worlds out there where you and Sam knew your mother. One I remember, she was the one who taught you boys to hunt.”

Castiel laughed quietly as he remembered. “It was the only world where you two knew how to communicate like humans are supposed to. You didn’t lie to one another like you did in every other world I visited. Your lives were a lot simpler. You killed the bad things and saved the good ones, and you talked things out, and you went home and ate a real dinner each night you weren’t on the road. What a world that was.”

“Then there was the one where I was the one addicted to these things,” he said, shaking the pill bottle irritably. “I fell a lot earlier in that world. Fell and never looked back. Stoned and defiant doesn’t even begin to describe what I was in that world.”

He took a breath. “You’ve known me ten days maybe, but I’ve known you a lot longer, under nearly every circumstance you can imagine. What I do, seeking out two brothers in every possible world, it's taken its toll. Some days, every lifetime gets confused in my head, and I can no longer remember what I am. It gets worse with every world I enter. Sometimes I forget completely that I'm not a true human, and only instinct brings me back to my mission. Only love for Sam and devotion to you. I lived in this world nearly fifteen years, so long I sometimes forgot I wasn't a true human, until I could find you without using my Grace-and who would have guessed you’d be in Chicago this time? I’m so sorry to have found you so late. But every time I use my Grace, that is another world I cannot break into, another mission dead before it's begun. I can only hope that the world I gave up in order to bring you peace and health a moment ago will be able to find its way on its own."

"For now, I’ve got to get to Sam, to keep repairing his confidence and his will in a very human way, since I cannot use my Grace. I know he isn’t my Sam. My Sam is gone. He said yes to Lucifer, only to snuff him out and take his place as King of Hell. I will never be able to save that Sam, nor that world from him. That world already burns, and so does that Dean. But I will save every other version of Sam I can, until the last of my Grace dies away. I can do nothing for my Sam, so I will do everything for yours. He’s so broken this time, so far gone with grief and shame. But I’ll teach him he can be loved, and prepare him for the supernatural, for defeating his destiny. And in that way, I will be able to hold his hand again, to bring pleasure to this world's boy with the demon blood. And for a time, I’ll pretend he’s the one I lost.”

Castiel lay his hand on Dean’s forehead. “You don’t know it yet, but you have been and will be my brother, in every world, the Righteous Man I will kill and die for, again and again. Sleep now, old friend. _We’ve got work to do_.”

**Author's Note:**

> You never know what you are meant to be, and what others will need you to do, so always keep fighting, ask for help when you need it, and kick it in the ass. 
> 
> ~Posing


End file.
